Wrestling Angels, Riding Demons
by Kaprou
Summary: Peter Parker, Web of Shadows AU. What would it take to make Peter walk away from adventuring, and what would it cost him? Can he find balance in his life? Can he regain faith in himself? Can he trust the spider ghost? (Complete at 22 chapters)
1. Part I begins Making Trophies

**PART ONE**

**Thursday, August 26 2004**

"Thanks for lunch, Gwen," the pert, attractive redhead smiled as she followed the willowy blonde into the kitchen.

"I'm just glad to offer whatever help we can," Gwen replied. "Have Peter and Dad gone into the study yet?" She carefully shrugged the dishes out of her arms and onto the counter.

The redhead glanced over her shoulder into the dining room. "They're on their way," she said, off-loading her dishes too. She shook her head. "Peter's having trouble dealing with… you know, with Aunt May."

"Why, Mary Jane Parker," Gwen said, batting her eyes, "it's good to hear you get all compassionate about Peter. Had we taken bets two years ago, I could have made some real cash!"

"Well, I did marry the big lug," Mary Jane reminded her. She shook her head. "That makes me and Aunt May Peter's only living relatives. And she's cocooned in the hospital, dying of cancer."

"How is she doing? I mean, I know she's dying," Gwen clarified. "But… I don't even know how to ask," she murmured, frowning into the sink as she started running dishwater.

"She's elderly," Mary Jane observed. "Generally decrepit and weak as tea. So they can't really do chemo on her, and she probably wouldn't survive an operation. Curing cancer is abusive, and she simply can't handle any abuse. Peter is in the unenviable position of figuring out how to gentle her death."

Gwen shivered, even with her hands in the hot dishwater. "How is Peter holding up?"

"He just does what he does," Mary Jane sighed. "And he's dealing with it as best he can. He tries to keep a stiff upper lip, but… it's hard on him. Real hard. Right now he's trying to figure out whether we need to move in with her or not. He doesn't have the heart to send her to assisted living. She's a proud woman," Mary Jane nodded thoughtfully. "God, I hope I don't have to go through this with my family."

"I'm with you there," Gwen agreed. "I want Dad to last forever." She smiled slightly, then turned off the running water.

Retired police captain John Stacy ducked over his pipe, lighting it. He took a puff, then leaned back in his chair and regarded the young man pacing his office.

"You're welcome to sit on any of these conveniently placed chairs, Peter," Stacy said with a wry smile.

Peter grinned at him sideways, then leaned against the window frame and watched the street below. "Sorry, I'm just kind of twitchy. I can't spend _all_ my time at the hospital or I'll just go crazy. When I'm there I wish I was somewhere else. When I leave, it's all I can think about."

"We can't have that," Stacy said, feeling old. "Hey, Peter, you seen the latest bizarre case?" He pretended to shuffle his papers to find it, then he picked up a newspaper article from the middle of his desk.

"Haven't paid much attention to the news," Peter admitted.

Stacy slid the paper over to his side of the desk. "Monday night. Three highly decorated SWAT officers, heroes in the war on drugs. Found skinned and decapitated, hanging from the rafters of a warehouse. Just barely enough skin on the hands to make an i.d."

Peter glanced down at the purring air conditioner window unit that was doing its best to struggle against the pervasive heat that lay in the city like a fever. "It's hot. Makes people do crazy things."

"Says here they were waylaid on the way home from the pool hall," Stacy murmured, glancing over the article. "Even decapitated, two of these men weighed in at almost three hundred pounds. That's pretty heavy. I figured they must have been shot first, so I did some asking around." He shook his head. "Killed with knives, at close range, by somebody who was awfully strong." He smiled to himself. "I thought you'd be interested."

"You sure do have a way of cheering a fellow up," Peter said with a slight smile. He let that sit for a moment, then shrugged. "Hey, thanks for having us over for lunch. I gotta go check on Aunt May." He straightened.

Stacy rose to his feet as well. "Thanks for coming over. And Peter? We're here for you. If you need us." His eyes were sober as he extended his hand. Peter clasped it, smiled at Stacy.

"I know. Means a lot," he said. Then he nodded, turned, and left the study.

**xXx**

"Can't even breathe in this heat," Mary Jane said over the blare of the car's air conditioning. It vomited hot air out now; it would be a few minutes before the car began to cool.

"August in New York," Peter shrugged. "Don't worry, you'll freeze when we get to the hospital." He tried a smile, then he paused. "There's a slasher nutcase running around New York decapitating and skinning cops," he added.

"Great timing," she muttered. "Stacy just can't resist baiting you with these weird cases, can he."

"He's still curious, that's all. He knows something's different about me, but he respects me enough to leave it at that. He's pretty cool," Peter said loudly, over the dull roar of air conditioning.

"Peter, I don't want you to throw yourself into something like this. Not with Aunt May in the shape she's in. You're distracted, honeybunch," she said seriously, "and that's a prelude to getting nailed by some psycho."

"At least it gives me something else to think about," Peter said tersely, eyes on the road. "Slashers, I can do something about. Aunt May… I feel so helpless," he admitted.

"Get backup, at least," Mary Jane said. "What about Strange or Illyana?"

"They're off on some training retreat together for two weeks," Peter sighed. "Valeria is currently out of town with no forwarding address. So Tandy is stuck taking care of business at the Planetary, and Tyrone is hip deep helping her."

"Yeah, but the list of your friends is longer than that," Mary Jane observed.

"True," Peter nodded. "At the moment, that's what I'm afraid of."

The subject dropped.

**xXx**

Peter looked down at the frail shell of a woman, elderly and wan. He gently touched the cool parchment skin on the back of her hand, but she did not stir. His eyes flickered to the machines that were hooked to her, to make sure she was still alive.

"We shouldn't disturb her, she's resting," Mary Jane whispered.

Peter barely nodded, then he let her guide him out of the hospital room. He took a deep breath. Then, together, he and Mary Jane headed for the parking lot.

"Damn," he muttered, something like rage twitching in his tone. "I gotta walk this off. I'll be home in a few hours."

"Normal men," Mary Jane replied with a slight smile, "go to the bar, kick a few back with their buddies, work in some serious commiseration, and wander home when they've forgotten their troubles."

Peter watched her for a moment.

She grinned, and slugged him on the arm. "I wouldn't trade," she said. "Go get em, tiger."

A smile ghosted behind Peter's serious features. "Don't wait up."

She turned, unlocking the car. By the time she slid down into the oven of the car's interior, she didn't have to look to see that he was gone.

"Be careful, and come home soon," she sighed to herself. "There. I said it."

She started the car, looked both ways, and pulled out of the parking space.

**xXx**

Peter glanced up and down the alley as the afternoon shadows lengthened. He twitched out of his shoes, ducked out of his shirt, hopped out of his pants. Piling his clothes in a bundle as he stripped off his socks, he flexed his forearms. Long scars along his wrists and forearms squirmed slightly; spinnerets on the underside of his wrists shaped a web goo as it sprayed, widening the focus to settle over the clothes. Deftly, multi-tasking effortlessly, he flipped the clothes over and swiftly wrapped them up.

He reached to the small of his back, where he had adhered a flat black mat. He peeled it loose and gave it a swift shake, and the leotard tumbled into shape from the square it had been folded into. He slid it on, and it stretched around his limbs to fit him snugly. As he pulled the mask up, he blinked to adjust to the sheer material against his eyes. Pale ovals on the dark mesh made his eyes seem huge.

Less than fifteen seconds after he had stepped into the alley, Peter Parker had become a spider ghost. He scooped up the bundle of his clothes, and sprang at the wall.

Peter wove through the shadows of the afternoon city, taking his time. The concrete and steel he touched sizzled with heat, the clouds had been burned away days ago and there was only the blue vault above. The sun bore down, its heat drawn into the bones of the streets and sidewalks and buildings of New York. Even at night, the heat breathed back out, and there was no relief.

Staying out of direct sun and sticking to the upper floors of buildings, the spider ghost sprang across streets, and sometimes fired thin strands of silk out of his forearms with a buzz like tearing silk. Less than a half an hour later, he dropped to the roof of a warehouse that was surrounded by police tape.

For a moment, he paused to smile to himself. Good thing his body was tough, much tougher than a human body. Otherwise, the thick strip of spider silk on his feet wouldn't be enough to keep him from getting blisters from the heat of the asphalt roofing. He prowled over to the shattered skylight, his senses unreeling around him like strands of a sensory web, looking for clues.

He squatted by footprints. Heavy. Probably over three hundred pounds. He let his senses play over the footprint; huge. Peter traced around it with his finger, but the mark was too indistinct to figure out more. He turned to the shattered skylight.

No rope fibers left where the men had been hanging. There was stress on the skylight frame, but no bits of steel, no sign of what sort of rope or cable held them. Peter made a note to ask the police about what had been holding the men when they had been found.

Peter straightened, taking a deep breath and looking around. A sudden wave of apathy hit him. "Must be the heat," he muttered. Then he stripped off the mesh, discarding it, and he pulled his clothes on. The mesh was already melting in the sun, once removed from his body.

He dropped through the skylight, landing easily several stories lower. Then he strolled to the back and let himself out, ducking the police tape and vanishing into the city's flowing restlessness.

**xXx**

Mary Jane heard the shower running. Glancing over at the half wall by the door, she saw Peter's wallet. She smiled to herself, and strolled into the bathroom.

"Make it snappy, you're steaming the place up," she said loudly through the shower curtain.

"Just finished," Peter said, turning the water off. He tugged the curtain aside and reached for a towel as Mary Jane looked him over. He grinned at her, blushing only slightly, and she felt a certain delight as an arch smile stole across her face.

"You are so _bashful_," she pointed out. "Seeing you back before dark is a pleasant surprise."

He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub shower. "Well, you know. My heart wasn't in it." He padded out of the bathroom, headed for the phone. "I'm going to see if Logan is in." He punched in a number from memory, then listened as the other end rang for a while before kicking into voice mail. His brows contracted as he listened through the message.

"Vacation?" he retorted. He hung up. "Who said he could go on a vacation? Maybe _I _need to go on a vacation."

"Got a suspect, Sherlock?" Mary Jane asked as she slid down onto the couch.

"Yes," Peter said grimly. "Yes I do." He paused. "I hope I'm wrong."

**xXx**

Heat.

Air sat in the apartment, unmoving. The windows, empty of glass, still failed to let the faintest breath of breeze in. Balefully glaring, the sun hung seemingly motionless to the west, burning through the frames of the windows.

Afternoon was sinking. The light was choosing sides, laying red and brilliant here and there, abandoning the rest of the room to shadow. Only one man was in the oven the unfurnished apartment had become.

Huge, he knelt in the center of the room on a thin mat, incense curling up around him. His eyes flicked open. They were deep, resonant, mysterious. His squarish head had iridescent dark hair, slicked back, and his hawkish features were drawn in concentration. His skin shone with sweat, but he didn't seem to feel the heat. He rose from his meditation, wearing only loose pants. His chiseled torso had the trim grace of a heavyweight boxer, and the muscles that packed on his frame bore scars from countless battles.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed his slicked hair back from his face once again, then he was fully present in the moment. He crossed the empty room to a table, and he picked up a cell phone. Placed a call.

He waited until the other end connected, then he smiled faintly. "Good afternoon, Natasha," he said in fluent Russian. "I need to see you. It is important. Can you meet me tonight?" He paused. "Good, thank you," he said. "Central Park, by the gazebo? I'll see you there at eight. Fine." He nodded to himself, and he snapped the phone shut.

Then he turned to the table behind him. Hatchets, knives, spears, katars. A neatly folded outfit.

He reached for his clothes.

**xXx**

A trim, lithe redhead with stylish short hair strolled down the path, alertly glancing around. She wore a sleeveless midriff-baring shirt, jogging shorts, running shoes. She paused when she saw the big man in the shadow of the gazebo.

He stepped into the fading light. Wearing a suit, with a stone set at his band collar. He smiled faintly, but that didn't improve the sinister cast of his features.

"What did you want to see me about, Kravinoff?" the woman asked in Russian.

"Natasha," he replied quietly. "I just wanted to have a conversation with you, that's all. I hear you married Stark," he continued, also in Russian.

"Your hearing is pretty good," she replied, arching an eyebrow.

"It has to be," he agreed. He approached her, and she stood her ground and watched him. "Natasha, this isn't easy for me," he murmured. "I have great affection for you, affection I would never ask you to return." He shrugged. "I wanted you to know that. I wanted to see you again. I won't be a nuisance. But… I wanted a chance to tell you that you are a strong, beautiful woman, and I could have been happy with you."

"What is this about, Kravinoff," Natasha asked, her eyes uncertain.

"I have a task to continue to completion," he replied. "I will rest easier having spoken with you. No regrets," he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it as he gazed into her eyes.

Natasha blinked at him, questions half-formed in her mind, off balance. "Is the hunting good?" she asked, unable to come up with better at point-blank notice.

"Better than it has ever been," he breathed, his eyes bright. "Goodbye." He turned his back to her, and walked away.

Puzzled and wary, she watched him go.


	2. A Hunter Killed

Friday, August 27 2004 

Mary Jane kicked the door shut, and unloaded her purse, keys, and bag of groceries onto the table. Then she glanced up, and saw Peter reflectively pulling the mesh up his arms, over his head, down his sinuous torso. His eyes were dark as he stood in the shadows of the hallway.

"I still get shivers when I see you suit up," she said with half a smile. "Somehow, I figured you'd be headed out as soon as the sun went down."

He said nothing as he rubbed at the seam where the shirt and the pants met around his narrow waist. The silk blended, so the mesh seemed to be made of a single piece. He looked at her, then pulled the mask down over his face and blinked against the eyespots, adjusting. Mary Jane let her eyes wander the taut muscle and sinew of the creature that faced her. For a long moment, she looked for her husband in the stray shadow. Then she pushed her hair back away from her face.

"Good hunting, tiger," she said quietly.

"I love you," he replied sincerely, his voice oddly different through the mask. Then he turned and vanished into the dim hallway. She heard the window in the bedroom slide up, then down. And he was gone.

She stepped over to the cupboard and opened it, fishing out a first aid kit with plenty of thread and several crescent needles and bandages. "See you later," she murmured to the shadows that had recently wrapped around her husband.

**xXx**

Kravinoff slowly wound the heavy cloth tape around his forearm, finishing the pad. He put the tape aside, then flexed to tighten the tape. He picked up a hatchet, slid it in a belt loop. Another hatchet. Two knives. A war club. Then he straightened. He wore heavy canvas pants, no shirt. He shrugged into a long coat, in spite of the heat. His hair was slicked back, his whole body freely perspiring. He didn't look uncomfortable in the slightest as he adjusted the coat to hide his weapons.

Turning, he left the incense curling in an empty room as he trod the hallway with determined, heavy steps.

He reached the street. Though the sun was rapidly sinking, the pavement still shimmered and danced with roiling walls of heat. Mirages flickered, reflecting steel back to itself from the quicksilver shine of the fevered city. As Kravinoff blended and became eerily unobtrusive in the crowd, he passed a boom box on a concrete porch.

"Third straight day of this record-breaking heat wave," the voice burbled from a far-away and air-conditioned room. "The heat is on, and tempers are short."

Kravinoff's smile revealed even, broad, sharp teeth. He vanished into the gathering dim, moving with single-minded purpose.

Less than an hour later, sundown was fait accompli. The sky was still awash in a gunmetal glow that refused to give up the searing heat of the day, a merciless shell that pressed the city's heat back into its concrete canyons and corridors.

The shadows stirred in an alleyway as Kravinoff settled, peering intently across the street. He saw the glass front of a martial arts dojo, he read the lettering on the glass. A group of students in their pale gi outfits were assembling, and their teacher was chatting with several of them.

Kravinoff let a slow, cruel smile spread across his features. Then he glanced around.

Must have higher ground.

**xXx**

The spider ghost dropped into the shadows by a vending machine, slotted in some change, reached down to the dispenser tray and pulled out a bottle of cold water. He retreated deeper in the shadows, pouring some water over his head and drinking the rest. It did little to cool him.

His senses strayed across the street, to a pawn shop that had a bank of televisions tuned to various stations. Almost unwillingly, he was drawn to watch the moving pictures.

He saw a banner for the 'New York All District Martial Arts Tournament.' Men in gi outfits fighting. A score, a very happy man in a wash of lights from camera flashes, flickering around him. He read the name; Ken Hyabusa.

"That's enough lollygagging around," he muttered to himself. He sprang at a wall, bounded from it, and whirled into action over the deepening darkness settling over the city.

**xXx**

The slender, graceful man stepped away from the back door of the dojo. He locked the door, then dropped his keys in his pocket. He whistled to himself as he strolled down the alley, headed for the sidewalk.

A rustle of air, then something thudded down behind him. He whirled, startled into a combat stance. Then he blinked as a mirage rippled, like a pillar of distortion, seeming to fill the alley.

"What's this?" was all he managed, wary and shaken. A peculiar, resonant string of clicks rattled from the distortion, then with a disturbing ring that sounded like steel on steel, it loomed towards him.

The slim man spun rapidly, firing a kick at the distortion and smacking into something that was very solid and didn't care about his puny attack. Transfixed, he saw the distortion bend light between him and the alley's lamp, as he got the sense it was poised for a killing blow. He blinked, staggered, unable to grasp the situation.

With a blood-curdling howl, _something_ dropped from the roof. A flash of light on an arc of steel, and a hatchet whipped down and thudded into the distortion as a huge man landed with catlike grace. The rattling clicks slithered out as the distortion seemed to turn; eyes _flashed_ from the shadowy mirage for a moment as it re-oriented.

Hyabusa sprinted for the mouth of the alley as the heavily built man grinned dangerously at the distortion, whipping out a knife and squaring off.

**xXx**

The spider ghost clung lightly to the side of a sky scraper, his back to it, his head tilted back. His senses unreeled into the thick smoggy air of the city, wafting and drifting on the breeze. He was waiting, sensing for a disturbance. For the minute clues that would direct his search.

His mind was alive with activity, sifting mounds of information, categorizing and filing and prioritizing before the vast sensory input reached his awareness.

His incredibly super-human hearing heard the howl of bloodlust, the ring of steel on steel.

As though launched by a catapult, the spider ghost sprang from the hot steel of the building. Firing out web lines, Peter realized that right now, a breeze did no good. He tore through the overheated air, blasted by gusts of heat rolling across him like he was swinging over a bonfire.

Wildly overactive, his senses drank in the world around him, hearing the ringing clatter and shouts of fighting. He slapped to a halt on a building's façade, and glanced around; there, a storefront with a big glass window, he recognized Hyabusa's dojo from the television program. The fight was on the roof next door. He tumbled off the building, web line tearing out, and slung over to see more.

As he popped up over the lip of the building, he saw Kravinoff held off the ground, feebly kicking, slashed and gory. Whatever held him seemed a roiling column of shimmering distortion. Brilliant green splotches of luminescent liquid were spattered on the roof, on Kravinoff, on his axe that lay in pieces at his feet.

Then Kravinoff's body flexed, his eyes bulged, his feet spasmed. He was thrown to the side, discarded. He clattered down and slowly curled into a fetal position as the thing that tossed him seemed to whirl to face the spider ghost. Eyes flared, hanging in the shimmer, then whatever it was spun and raced to the edge of the roof, leaping away.

Peter had a moment to choose; pursuit, or tending Kravinoff. The choice was simple.

He dropped to his knees at Kravinoff's side; the huge man's chest had been slashed more or less open, and what appeared to be huge knife wounds gaped in the corded muscle of his belly. Blades had been whacked across his head, and one eye drooped useless and torn. He reached a trembling hand up to Peter, smeared in gore.

"It was…" he gasped, "a good… hunt…"

A ghost of a smile traced across his features, like a strand of spiderweb in the dark. Then his head lolled back, and the last breath he would ever take slid free of his dead body.

Peter held the huge man in his arms, and he realized he was trembling. Kravinoff… he touched at the eyes of the corpse, closing them. A shudder crawled across him, and he shrugged Kravinoff down to the roof. He stood, he stepped back.

Glanced at the glowing green flecks and spatters.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, unsteady. "First things first." He looked down at Kravinoff. Thought about the cops finding him here. The morgue. A pauper's grave, if there even was such a thing anymore.

"You deserve better," Peter said, and he knelt by the body of his friend and lifted it though it was light as a feather. Then he turned, and vanished into the night with his load as sirens wailed ever closer.

**xXx**

Peter stood under a spotlight, carrying a body wrapped in a tarp. Blood had soaked through the tarp, and it slowly oozed down into strings that dripped onto the pavement. He waited, not far from the fence, and before three minutes had passed, a security contingent faced off with him, guns leveled at his head.

"I'm here to see Stark," he said. "Tell him the spider ghost needs to talk to him."

One man talked into his handset, then he nodded. "Come with me," he said.

As they approached the back of the industrial complex, a dapper man in a pale suit stepped out and strolled towards them. "Been a while, spider ghost," he said. "How have you been?"

"I wish I came with better news," Peter replied, kneeling. He folded the tarp back from Kravinoff's face. The mangled visage seemed to be at peace. It was no less shocking for that.

"What?" Stark gasped. "What happened? Did you kill him?"

"No," the spider ghost replied sharply. "But whatever did left this behind." He unwrapped the tarp further, revealing the bright green goo that glowed in the dimness. "Do you have some people who could analyze this?"

"I do," Stark nodded, a bit breathless. "Okay, Security, put the body in the hangar until we can arrange for a coffin. Keep an eye on it. Ghost, maybe you should come with me." Shaken, the trim man turned and headed back into the complex, the spider ghost at his heels.

They entered the back door, crossed a catwalk, and entered an elevator. The spider ghost glanced around, clearly uneasy at being confined.

"What happened?" Stark asked flatly as the elevator carried them up.

"Slasher murders," the spider ghost replied. "All over the news. Three decorated SWAT officers. I was trying to find Kravinoff. If he took to hunting men he would have to be stopped." The spider ghost hesitated. "I was wrong. He was hunting whatever was hunting those men. Only this time he bit off more than he could chew." The spider ghost twitched. "It's how he would want to go. In a hunt."

Stark pulled a cell phone from his pocket, punched in a four digit code. "Security, get me Natasha and Logan to the lounge on Deck Two in the Greydan building." He snapped the phone shut without waiting for a reply, and he examined the spider ghost. "Want to slip into something more comfortable?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "That's a good idea."

**xXx**

Peter Parker sat on the couch in the sparsely appointed lounge, sipping a tall glass of water and letting the cold air breathe on him from the vents.

"Heaven has air conditioning," he muttered. "So. Stark. Did you say Logan was back?"

"Just got in yesterday," Stark nodded. "He should be here shortly."

The door opened, and an attractive redhead entered. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Natasha. Good." Stark stood, facing her. "I don't know how to do this gently. Kravinoff is dead. Peter found his body, brought it here."

Natasha frowned slightly. "He knew he was going to die. He called yesterday, wanted to meet. Said his goodbyes to me. I had a feeling something like this would happen." Her lips thinned, her eyes narrowed. "Who did it."

The door opened, and a short hairy man with wild upswept hair strolled in. "What's the emergency?" he asked gruffly. His eyes settled on Peter, and he grinned. "As I live n breathe. Peter Parker."

"Good to see you too, Logan," Peter said with half a smile. "And I wish I had better news. Kravinoff was killed tonight."

Logan blinked. Natasha lit a cigarette.

"I was looking for a killer," Peter said. "Somebody murdered three cops with a knife at close range, skinned them and took their heads. How could I _not_ suspect Kravinoff went off the deep end? I mean, _somebody_ made trophies out of those cops. So I was looking for him. I ran across a fight, and I went to break it up, and… and I found Kravinoff fighting with something. Like a mirage. I tried to keep him alive, but… he was already pretty much dead by the time I got there. So I brought his body here."

Logan shook his head. "Damn shame. Stark… Kravinoff should be buried on his island."

"Yes," Stark agreed. "That can be done."

"There's more," Peter said. "The thing that killed him. I think its blood is glowing green. Some of it was on Kravinoff, on his weapons. Maybe the killer is some kind of bio weapon or suit or something." He hesitated. "Maybe it's magic. Or from another world. I just don't know."

"We have _got _to track this thing down. Kravinoff was a friend a mine," Logan said.

"Mine too," Natasha agreed. "Where did this fight take place?"

"In an alley, then up to a rooftop," Peter said.

"What was around?" Natasha pressed.

Peter hesitated. "In the time it would take me to tell you, you could see it for yourself."

Stark nodded curtly. "Natasha. Bring a car around."


	3. On the Trail

**xXx**

Peter sat in the passenger seat next to Natasha, who cruised the car slowly past the unoccupied cop car. Looking up, they saw flashlights played around on the roof. A SWAT van rumbled to a halt across the street, followed by a crime scene unit.

"There," Peter said, pointing at the alley. "Then up on the roof next door."

Logan rolled down the window and sniffed.

Natasha glanced around. "That dojo," she said. "That's Ken Hyabusa's dojo."

"Who?" Peter blinked, even as the spider ghost ferreted the detail out of its store and slid it to his conscious mind.

"He just won a martial arts tournament in New York," Natasha said.

"You know him?" Stark asked as they turned at the corner and headed down a side street.

"No," Natasha replied with a faint smile. "But my training encourages me to pay attention to the news and remember it. Hyabusa won the tournament this weekend."

"I wonder," Peter murmured. "Hyabusa won a tournament. The three SWAT officers that were killed." He closed his eyes, casting his mind back. "The week before, last Wednesday, they were decorated for their bravery in assaulting a drug house."

"Maybe our hunter just wants pedigreed targets," Logan said. "Some nutjobs go on safari just so they can shoot at things that are dangerous enough to fight back if things go wrong."

"That's why I suspected Kravinoff at first," Peter nodded. "But it wasn't him. There's something else out here."

"It might go after Hyabusa again," Logan muttered blackly, looking out the back window of the sedan as they turned to head back to Stark's complex.

"I can watch him," Natasha said. "I'll keep tabs on his movements."

"Well," Peter sighed, "I suppose I can swing around and see what I can find from a rooftop angle. This hunter seems pretty confident on rooftops."

"Let me know when this thing is watching Hyabusa," Logan said softly. He tucked a cigar in his mouth, ducked to light it, leaned back taking a drag. "I'll beat Hyabusa."

"What?" Stark said. "How is that—ah. So you figure if you beat Hyabusa, then the hunter will think you're a better target."

"Bingo," Logan nodded.

"I should do it," Peter said. "I've been taking martial arts classes. And face it, bub, I'm a hell of a lot faster and stronger than you are."

"Exactly," Logan agreed. "That's why you gotta stay loose to chase this bastard if he runs, or to stop him if he tries to kill somebody else. We don't know a damn thing about this hunter except that he is really strong. You're better suited to adapt if something unexpected comes up."

"You got this all worked out, don't you," Peter grumbled.

"That's what I pay him for," Stark smiled. Then he frowned, and dug out his vibrating pager. Natasha slid hers off her belt and glanced at it.

"Alarm at the complex," Stark said quickly. "The hangar."

Natasha stepped on the gas, and the sedan lunged forward and expertly nosed through a gap that appeared a bit too small for it. She swooped around one car, slung across two lanes of traffic, drew sparks from the curb as she rushed the car down a wide alley.

"This is why she gets to drive," Stark confided as Logan gripped the seat and the door. "I may drive race cars," he continued, "but she's got me beat in street driving like this. Don't ask how we know." He grinned fondly.

"We're gonna die," Peter said simply, and Natasha grimly bared her teeth as they screeched out of the alley and roared across an intersection, zipping through interlaced traffic. Stark's complex was in sight.

The car skidded to a halt as the doors popped open. The four of them raced for the gate, Stark punched in the code to open it. They sprinted past the guards, towards the hangar. Stark was in good physical shape, so he still had the stamina to bark questions when they arrived. "What happened?" he demanded. "An intruder?"

"Yes sir," a nervous guard replied. "Something got over the fence, into the hangar, and stole the body that you ordered us to guard. See, when the alarm went off, we hadn't had time to get a coffin yet. The body was on a gurney, we were getting ready to put it in the walk-in refrigerator. Then the skylight busted. We stowed the body in the fridge, then we fanned out to search the place. A team discovered the fridge had the door ripped open, the body was just… gone. We had all the doors covered, sir. I have no idea how this could have happened."

"I'll look around the roof," Peter muttered, and he ducked away from the group. Stark nodded to the guard, who let him go.

"I'll go check the security tapes, examine our countermeasures, see what I can figure out about our stealthy giant," Natasha sighed. She headed for the control center.

Logan started walking away, and Stark stepped after him. "Logan? What are you going to do?"

"I'm gonna sniff the body-snatching son of a bitch out," Logan growled.

Stark let him go.

It was simple enough for Logan to catch the trace of Kravinoff's scent, shaded by death. He followed his nose around the side of the building, and squinted; an oblique path could lead a fast runner to the fence with a minimum of exposure to lights. Much easier now that two of the lights seemed to be burned out, or broken. Logan squatted, touched tracks. Big tracks. Frowning, he jogged towards the fence, the scent still firm in the light breeze.

He got to the fence, looked up. Four meters, barbed wire. But it didn't look like it had been climbed, or anything had been thrown over it.

"No way," he muttered. "No way it could have cleared that, carrying Kravinoff to boot."

With a ringing slit, he popped three blades through the flesh of his hand as they unsheathed from his forearms. He swept his claws down through the chain link, and the fence tore open in a burst of sparks. Logan ducked through, but there were no tracks on the concrete. He picked up the stronger, peculiar alien odor of the hunter under the smell of Kravinoff's body.

Across the street, up the fire escape. Logan paused as he saw the crumpled body bag, tossed aside. He proceeded to the edge of the roof, and looked down at five lanes of traffic.

A dizzying swirl of scents, most of them industrial and acrid, swarmed up from the street. As Logan looked around, he knew that crossing this concrete canyon was better for masking a scent trail than running water would be. He clenched his jaw, frustrated.

Then he felt it. Eyes, upon him. He stood, peering around intently, knowing he was observed as though he had seen the one watching him.

"Not yet," he whispered. He backed away, then turned and trotted across the roof to the fire escape.

"You're not getting away with this," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Behind him, lost in the tangle of light and shadow, eyes flared.

**xXx**

Peter slowly let himself in, closed the door, and crossed the room. He sank down on the couch as Mary Jane came down the hallway, crossed to the kitchen, and got out the first aid kit.

"How bad is it?" she asked matter-of-factly as she carried the kit over to the couch.

"Not a scratch," Peter said quietly. "I was wrong. The killer wasn't Kravinoff. But he was hunting the killer, and… now he's dead." Peter looked up at Mary Jane, a profound weariness in his eyes. "Kravinoff is dead."

She sat down, not sure what to say.

"I'm working with Logan, Stark, Natasha," Peter went on. "We're going to try to trap the hunter, finish him off before more people can get killed. Kravinoff was a friend. We won't let this hunter get away with killing him. My job is going to be finding the bastard, keep him from getting away."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Mary Jane asked. "With Aunt May in the shape she's in?"

"I can't do anything about her," Peter said, staring at the floor. "At least I can stop this hunter. At least this is something I can punch." He sighed deeply, and rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired of losing people, Mary Jane. I'm tired of going to funerals."

"Things will look better in the morning," Mary Jane suggested. "Look, you do what you have to do. I'll be waiting for you when it's over." She touched his knee, unsure why it felt wrong to pull him into an embrace. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm headed back out," Peter said, rubbing at his face briefly and rising. "I just stopped in to get another suit. We figured out who the hunter is after, and we're doing stakeout duties."

"The others can't handle that tonight?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"And I need some time to sort things out in my head," Peter admitted. "If I just sit around and brood on it, I'll go crazy. And I just… can't… go to the hospital… again, not right now," he managed.

Her smile was crooked. "The world is in peril, my mighty hero. Go save the day."

He kissed her, and she kissed him back.

**xXx**

By the time the spider ghost reached Hyabusa's dojo, the police were firmly entrenched. Men were tugging off hazard suit gear, it seemed the crime scene had been analyzed and they were packing it in. Peter noticed two detectives, Brilhart and Vine, in deep conversation with the crime scene technicians. He wondered how Stark's people were doing with the sample of the green stuff he had found earlier in the evening.

Easily vaulting the street, the spider ghost landed on the roof that had recently been vacated by the crime scene workers. One policeman stood guard, and the spider ghost easily ducked behind him, unseen. Peter looked around.

"Okay," he muttered. "Do your thing." His spider senses unreeled, brushing across the roof, absorbing minute details. Some subconscious mechanism sifted and sorted at unreal speeds, taking in a mass of data and combing it for significant connections and details.

The fight. Seems Kravinoff was hurled up to the roof, a shallow indent on the roofing like a heavy man falling. Then some blood; Kravinoff hit it in the alley and it was already bleeding, he hit it again. The fight moved; the spider ghost paced it, eyes half closed. Kravinoff was back-handed into a wall, here, the wall was cratered inward with broken brick where the big man had been fired into it.

A skirmish, blood on the walls and floor. Then Kravinoff flung this way. The hunter that he had been fighting must be tremendously strong, Peter realized as he trod out the space that Kravinoff had been airborne. Then he landed, fell, rolled, leaving blood smeared behind him. And he dove to the side.

Dove to the side? Peter squinted over at where the hunter would have been, where Kravinoff had been. Maybe it had shot something at him. He turned, gazing along the trajectory, saw an air conditioning unit on the adjacent building. He sprang to the other roof, then prowled to the unit.

Sure enough, it had been holed. Peter poked his fingers into the rent, found metal, tugged.

His eyes widened as he examined the blade he held. It was shaped something like a wicked tuning fork, like some sort of spear tip. He let his senses play over it. Wasn't steel. Something else. And sharp. Very sharp.

For a long moment, Peter debated what would do the investigation the most good. Turning this over to the police, or having Stark take a look. Then it was decided, and he slipped the spear tip into his mesh.

Still. It was time to have a chat with Brilhart. Peter didn't have the heart to pace through the rest of the short battle. To kneel where his friend had been murdered. Tightening his jaw, he sprang across the street and dropped into an alley. He saw Brilhart tossing his coffee cup in a trash can, and he hissed at him softly: "Psst."

Brilhart hesitated, and turned. All he could see of the spider ghost was two pale eye-spots hanging in the dim shadow of the alley. The rest of the suit blended in. The detective blinked, glanced over his shoulder, and stepped into the alley.

Brilhart was a man whose face was younger than his eyes. He wore a trench coat, and he seemed to have a solemn expression engraved in place. "Spider ghost," he said. "I was hoping you'd involve yourself in this one. Any idea what's running around our fair city?"

"We're beginning to," he replied. "I've brought in friends on this one. I know, not my usual style, but… the man that was killed on the roof had a lot of friends."

"We didn't find the body," Brilhart observed. He lit up a cigarette. "Any idea who it was?"

"Just between us, it was Sergei Kravinoff," Peter replied, wincing at the slip. "He was an illegal alien hiding out in the United States. He hunted down menaces and killed them. Came after me once. He was good. Damn good. But this thing butchered him."

"What happened to the body? We could get some forensic evidence from it," Brilhart said.

"The hunter figured out where we stashed it and waltzed off with it. We think he's making trophies. That's why he was here," the spider ghost explained, pointing at the dojo.

Brilhart's eyes narrowed. "Decorated cops. Martial arts champion." He winced slightly. "That's not good."

"We're going to sort this one out Special Crimes Unit style," Peter said. "We've got this plan to have one of our number fight and defeat Hyabusa when the slasher is watching. So it'll target him instead of the teacher. Then we'll take him on, track him to his lair if need be, and finish this out however it's got to go."

"There are a lot of guys on the force itching for revenge," Brilhart observed. "They want to personally kill this thing while it's resisting arrest. Whether it's from this world or not."

"What would you rather have?" the spider ghost asked. "Bravado, or a solution?"

"I want it sorted out quickly and quietly, same as you. At least this thing just attacks in hand to hand, doesn't seem to be a sniper."

"Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know that much about it yet," Peter said. "We'll let you know how it turns out after we've cornered and defeated it."

"And after you've beaten the tar out of some martial arts champion?" Brilhart mused. "You aren't gentle with those you help."

"That's the way the world seems to work," Peter shrugged.

"Your friends, are they like you?" Brilhart asked as his mind worked.

Peter smiled under his mesh. "Not even a little bit. You don't want to know who's helping you. I'll just bring you up to speed on the slasher's status when it's all sorted out."

Brilhart took a deep, deliberate drag on his cigarette. "I guess that's all there is to say," he reflected. "Best of luck. I don't want to find any more skinned or decapitated corpses. Let me know if you need anything."

He didn't have to look up. He knew the spider ghost was gone. Turning, he trudged out towards his squad car.


	4. Working It Out

**Saturday, August 28 2004**

Long before his key hit the lock, Peter Parker smelled bacon. And that made him smile.

He opened the door to see Mary Jane in a midriff-baring tee shirt that was too small for her, wearing athletic shorts, standing over the stove frying bacon. As he closed the door, he permitted himself a long moment for his eyes to wander the exposed expanse of her long, shapely legs and her slender and toned torso. She glanced over her shoulder with a wry grin, letting him take his time with it.

"Hi," he said. "I feel better already."

"Stakeout not all you had hoped?" she asked.

He sighed. "When is it ever," he muttered.

"Well now that you're back, Danger Butt, _you_ finish up the bacon. _I've_ got to go change."

"Change?" he said. "What is this 'change' you speak of? I command you to remain scantily clad!" He managed a grin.

"Injured or not, I knew you'd need some fat and protein, because you have this disgusting metabolism that wolfs down cheeseburgers by the fistful and stays trim and slim and sexy-looking. Without all the hard work I have to put into keeping this artwork avant guarde," she said, gesturing down at her own body. "But you can still be a little flighty on scheduling. Today is band practice, remember?"

"Great," Peter said, rolling his eyes. He took over bacon duties as hot grease crackled and spat on his arm. He ignored it, his tough flesh easily withstanding the sting. "I was up all night, I've got this situation—"

"Peter Parker," Mary Jane retorted, fists on hips, "I think this is _just_ what you need. Get together with Tandy and Tyrone, blow off some steam. What, you want me to duct tape trash bags over the windows in the back room so you can get a big chair and camp out and brood about your troubles? Come on, Peter. You know this will be good for you." She raised an eyebrow.

He thought it over for a moment. "I think you're right," he admitted. "This might be good for me. And Natasha is working the place over right now, Logan is probably already with her. Just one detail," he sighed. "I really ought to, you know, sleep at some point."

Mary Jane just laughed.

**xXx**

Natasha tugged off her ball cap and shrugged the top half of her air conditioner repairman jumpsuit off, cooler in the tee shirt she wore beneath. She opened the back door to the unmarked van and climbed in.

"Well?" she asked as Logan peered at the screens that took up one side of the van.

"Placement worked," he shrugged. "Like you needed to ask."

She grinned, hopping out of the jumpsuit. She wore biker shorts and a tee shirt, and she settled in the sliding chair in front of the bank of screens.

"Home," she said, pointing to one strip of monitors. "There's the dojo, his car, and here are some microphones I slipped into his clothing. They'll dissolve in the wash. Somebody so much as sneezes around Hyabusa, I'll see it here. And these," she said, pointing to the other half of the monitors, "observe roof vectors around the dojo and his apartment. Motion detectors and variable frequency mass and thermal scans are scattered around, too. If anything tries to sneak up, I'll know."

"You scare me. Little bit," Logan grinned.

Natasha chuckled. "Okay," she said. "Here is Hyabusa. He's getting some coffee before he opens the shop. That's the same coffee shop the two cops in the unmarked have been using," she added, pointing at a screen with an old sedan that was parked across the street from the dojo.

"Looks like we're all set," Logan said. "Where the hell is Peter?"

"He was on guard all night. I gave him the day off," Natasha shrugged. She upped the air conditioning to a dull roar, as it was still hot enough to get sweaty in the cramped van full of electronics. "When I detect the approach of the hunter, you'll have to get in position."

"Then we'll see if this monster can feel regret," Logan muttered.

**xXx**

"God I need this," Tandy sighed as the garage door rolled up, equalizing the stuffy heat of the garage with the sun-baked heat of the driveway. Her hair was so blonde it was like spun gold, pale in the sunlight. Her slender strength was gentled with curves, and she was dressed simply. Her eyes were bright, but she seemed weary. "With Strange, Illyana, and Valeria _all_ out of the office, it's been hell on wheels trying to keep everything under control. I'm about spent."

Peter glanced at the clock. Almost ten. He settled gingerly into the drum trap, and then whirled his drumsticks up into his hands. Tapped on a few drum heads, felt his senses stir and unfold over all the tensile strength of the striking surfaces. Something in him smiled.

"D-dd-dude, I know," said a thin black kid, gangly and grim. He ducked into his guitar strap. "M-my momma caught S-ss-Sid, my brother? With a _j-joint_," he added in disgust. "K-kk-kid is l-like, _ten_." He shook his head.

Peter glanced at Mary Jane as she intently tuned her bass guitar. She caught his eye and smiled at him.

"Maybe we should do the blues," Peter quipped. "We gonna make some music, or what?"

**xXx**

"Movement," Natasha said sharply, and her fingers clattered on the keyboard. "End of the block." She squinted at the screen.

"Let's get this party started," Logan growled, snatching up a ball cap.

"I'll be damned," Natasha said, and Logan watched over her shoulder. She pointed at the motion-detecting camera. Something that looked a lot like a silhouette of nothing wavered in the heat. "See there? That distortion? It's like a light shield or something. Refractive camo."

"Good thing we got access to Stark's surveillance gear," Logan grinned. "What's our hunter doin?"  
"Looks like he's just watching. Just sitting there watching," Natasha replied. She scooped up a dart gun. "Okay. I'll clear the cops."

"I'm on my way," Logan muttered, and he ducked out of the van as he jammed a tac net microphone in his ear.

**xXx**

The instruments growled down to quiet. Tyrone and Mary Jane bent over the necks of their electric guitars to make the final adjustments. Peter touched at several drum heads as Tandy took a deep drink from her water bottle, then glanced down at her keyboard. Tyrone smacked the button to lower the garage door, it rumbled down to keep the noise in the garage as much as possible.

"So," Peter said, a bit edgy, "what's next on the docket? What are we going to play?"

"I've been working on several pieces I'd like to try out," Tandy said.

"Got something hard?" Peter asked, his senses locked into the drums, ready to go. "Something fast and metal?" He glanced at Tyrone, who perked up and grinned.

"H-hell yeah!" Tyrone said.

"Why do you want to do metal? Not your usual style," Tandy observed.

"Trust me, after the week I've had? I really want to hit something hard," Peter confided.

Tandy and Mary Jane exchanged a long-suffering look. "I can see which way the wind is blowing today," Tandy chuckled. "Tyrone, I'm guessing you might just have something ready that we could practice."

He was already digging in his backpack. "K-keeps me b-bb-busy when I'm w-wwaiting in the c-car," he said, and he produced a sheaf of photocopied music. "I c-ccall it 'Scythefall,' it k-kk-kicks," he said. He handed out the music.

"Okay," Peter said as he got the creased pages. He glanced it over. "Let's hit it."

**xXx**

Logan entered the dojo's antechamber, kicked off his shoes, bowed into the dojo. He stood off to the side, respectfully waiting. Hyabusa walked down the row as the class was paired off in three-strike sparring. He caught Logan's eye, and padded over to him.

Hyabusa wasn't particularly tall, but he was several inches taller than Logan. He frowned. "Something I can help you with?" he asked, his voice soft. He was whipcord thin, powerful, graceful. He knew his stuff, and Logan could sense that about him. Logan nodded solemnly.

"My friend saved your life in the alley. And he got killed on the roof next door," Logan said without preamble. "That hunter is watching us right now. So I'm gonna save your life by beating you, with the hunter watching. You're being targeted by this thing because you won the championship. The hunter must a seen it on tv or something."

"This is a ridiculously thin excuse," Hyabusa replied simply. "Most people just want to prove themselves against the best, but you've bothered to come up with a whole story for it. And I don't spar. I'm sorry. If you don't mind, I have a class to teach."

Logan's hand darted out, gripping the teacher's sleeve. Hyabusa resisted the impulse to fling him across the room, instead glaring into his eyes.

"Honest to God truth, too goofy ta make up," Logan said grimly. "You gonna make me fight your whole class too? Cause I'm not leavin until we sort this out."

"Do I have to call the police?" Hyabusa asked in an icy voice. "They are right across the street."

"Takin a nice nap at the moment," Logan nodded. "My associate took care a them."

"You're serious," Hyabusa breathed. He shook his head. "I can't believe this."

"I want ta save yer life," Logan said intently.

Hyabusa stared at him, then shook his head. "I'll beat you quickly," he said. "Then you can be on your way."

"Sounds fine," Logan grinned. He trotted out on the mat as the students cleared it, awed. Logan settled, his crooked hairy toes gripping the mat. He adjusted into stance, and Hyabusa rolled his head on his neck. They bowed and opened, then stood warily watching each other.

Hyabusa spun with a punch; Logan blocked it with a swift flick of his forearm, and snatched at Hyabusa's sleeve. The teacher ducked away from that, slinging a kick at Logan; Logan stamped at the mat, and the kick rebounded from his solid leg. Hyabusa twirled back to balance.

"You look surprised," Logan drawled. "Let's do this."

They fought.

**xXx**

The drums roared and rattled, Peter let the tension in his body ride itself out through the drum sticks as they spun and danced and whirled around him as though they were more alive than he was. His face was slick with sweat, his hair worled and plastered down, his shirt clinging to him like mesh.

Drawn from him, the spider ghost blended with the rhythm of Mary Jane's guitar, tucked under Tyrone's racing guitar riffs, curled through Tandy's chords. As the drum set became a part of him, the sensational half-aware spider ghost twisted into the rhythms. Peter felt a sense of isolation; through the noise, no conversation was possible. In the concentration of the music, there was no space for idle worry and daydreaming to swirl around him. He felt deliciously alone as he melded into the sound of the band, the spider ghost becoming a foundation that held everything together and propelled it forward.

His face was slack in the heat, in the sound. And he closed his eyes, pushing out tears, as something unbearably tight in his chest began to loosen. Salt water blended as tears and sweat flowed freely, and no one saw past the glittering drum set and the deafening noise to the young man who hid inside the fascination of rhythm.

**xXx**

Natasha's gaze twitched from the martial arts match in the dojo the view of the distortion on the rooftop. She bit her lip as she looked back at the monitor watching Logan and Hyabusa circle, then her mind was made up. She snatched a snub rifle, and ducked out of the van, the door slamming behind her as she jogged into an alley to circle around.

"You're not getting away clean _this_ time," she muttered in Russian through clenched teeth. She sprang up to catch at the fire escape.

Across the street, Logan fired a kick at Hyabusa, who spun around it and smacked a double-palm strike into Logan's torso, unbalancing him.

"How are you still up?" Hyabusa growled.

Logan darted in with a punch, catching a glancing blow on Hyabusa's shoulder. As the slender man rolled with it, Logan stamped on his foot, startling him. Logan followed up with a shoulder check. Hyabusa toppled, startled out of his balance, and Logan dropped to a knee. Hyabusa squirmed his leg out of the way, and he twirled in a kip-up that smacked into Logan's shoulder. Hyabusa slung a powerful blow down into Logan, staggering him back and to his feet, then he spun into him and snatched at his wrist and lapel. With a grunt, the lighter man sent Logan whirling through the air to smack down on the mat.

Logan twisted up to his feet and settled into stance, smiling and not at all winded. Hyabusa stared at him for a moment, then frowned and twisted the ball of his foot for better leverage.

"Perhaps I was hasty," he said. "Show me what you've got."

Logan grinned, flexing. Then he charged.

**xXx**

Tandy sagged down on her forearms at the keyboard station. In the relative quiet after the set wrapped up, the amps hummed and fans did their best to push the sluggish air around. Drenched in sweat, the band exchanged glances. Tandy roused herself to drink deeply from a water bottle as Mary Jane clamped a damp towel on her face and Tyrone slumped on the stool, glancing out the window.

Peter's eyes were bright. "What else we working on?" he asked. "What's next?"

"Th-that's all I got for the r-reaper set," Tyrone said wearily.

"I had some light studies I wanted to try out," Tandy said. "You all game?"

"B-bring it on," Tyrone replied, and Peter smiled to himself.

As Tandy passed out the music, Mary Jane leaned on the button to open the garage door. Clattering and growling, the chained engine dragged the heavy door up. Outside, sunlight poured down as a hot breeze wandered into the garage and got lost.


	5. Pop Goes the Weasel

**xXx**

Natasha stealthily rolled over the edge of the roof and crouched in the shadow of the stair access. She lined up on the rippling distortion with her gun, then she breathed out as she squeezed the trigger.

The gun piffed, and something whipped through the intervening space and jabbed the mirage.

Natasha's breath drained as she saw two eyes flare in the rippling shadow.

She rolled backward and flipped over the edge of the roof, landing gracefully on the fire escape. Behind her, a peculiar flaring hiss resounded, and a bolt of energy lanced into the brickwork and blew it to pieces. She rolled with the explosive impact, clattering down the fire escape, dexterously twisting free and dropping into the alley.

As she rebounded from a dumpster and rolled, bolts rained down; the dumpster was blown in half, a chunk knocked out of the wall, a crater blasted just behind her as she sprinted with abandon and dove around the corner of the alley.

Hyabusa slung a kick at Logan's groin, and Logan twisted out of the way and sprang for the lithe teacher. As Hyabusa skillfully evaded him, Logan reversed and smacked an elbow into Hyabusa's face.

Outside, energy bolts whistled and spat down into the shattering booms of their explosions. Hybusa glanced aside, distracted, and Logan snatched him and slung him around and down, slamming on the mat hard. Then Logan was on his feet, hopping into his boots, sprinting through the front door. Hyabusa, groggy, managed to lever himself up to a sitting position.

"Dammit, girl, no use jumpin the gun," Logan muttered as he ran towards the explosions.

Natasha dove out of the alley and rolled to her feet. She glanced around, then she dashed towards the van with the surveillance equipment. A rippling shadow loomed on the roof, and a bolt of energy sizzled towards her.

Logan was sprinting as the bolt lashed down; the blast detonated on the sidewalk next to Natasha, flinging her into the air. A semi honked as it locked up the brakes, but she was tossed right in front of its grill—Logan leaped, slapped into her, and knocked her out of the way as the semi roared past with smoke pouring from its tires.

Rolling, he tried to cushion the battering as they went down a stairwell to an alley basement entrance. Afraid to look, he levered himself up off her. Dazed, Natasha blinked at him.

"You gonna be okay?" Logan demanded as he pried the peculiar gun from her grip.

"Fine," she managed. "No… gun has tracer… is bug… is not bullets…"

"You shot the hunter with a tracking device?" Logan blinked.

Natasha nodded. "Let… him go…"

"Not a chance," Logan growled. "Because now he's comin fer us. I mean _right_ now. Stay put." He rocked back to his heels and rose, then he jogged up the stairs and cautiously peeked around the corner. Sirens wailed in the near distance. Logan spun around and ran to a fire escape, jumping to kick off the brick wall and launch himself just high enough to catch the bottom rung of the hanging ladder.

He scrabbled and dashed up the fire escape, rolling over the edge of the roof and planting his feet on the roofing. Looking across the too-narrow alley, he saw the distortion motionlessly watching him.

"Enough with the lightning, bub," Logan growled. With a ringing slit, three long blades slid out of the back of each hand, pushed from their flesh sheathes in his forearms. He flexed, the adamantium of his claws burning with light as they reflected the sun at the distortion.

Logan squinted, sniffed. The distortion seemed… startled? He heard muted chirping, and the refractive camo began to twist away from the hunter in glittering waves. Logan's eyes widened.

The hunter was just over two meters tall. Logan no longer had any suspicion it was human. Solidly packed with muscle, the creature was tapping a long claw on a wrist greave control, shutting down the light shield. The hunter was draped in a strange tight mesh, overlaid by patchwork layered armor. His flesh was greasy, pale, and greenish brown mottled. A blank face mask hid his features, his hair hung down in long dredlocks interwoven with bits of metal. Logan had an uneasy feeling this creature was not from Earth.

The hunter pointed his mask at Logan, and Logan saw the three laser sights built into the mask. They oriented on Logan, and a device that looked something like a hair dryer mounted on his shoulder plate pivoted to line up on the short man.

"Fight me," Logan growled, every fiber of his being primed to dive out of the way if it fired on him.

The hunter regarded him, then tapped on its greave again. The shoulder cannon twitched, then folded back. And the hunter squared off, rising to his full impressive height.

With a ringing impact, two peculiar blades shot down out of their housings on his forearm greave. The blades weren't quite crooked, but they were oddly shaped. Logan froze, shocked by the sound.

Those blades… no. Impossible.

They couldn't be adamantium.

**xXx**

The band wrapped it up with a wash of cymbal roll from Peter as the black and white police car rolled up into the driveway.

"This for you?" Mary Jane asked Peter with an arched eyebrow.

"No," he replied simply.

An officer approached, looking somehow crisp in his kevlar vest and pressed uniform in spite of the heat. "Excuse me," he said. "We've had some complaints about the noise from the neighbors. I'm afraid you're going to have to knock it off for the day."

"We were done anyway," Tandy nodded. "Thank you, officer. Have a good afternoon." She switched her keyboard off. The policeman nodded at her with a smile, then turned and headed back to his car.

As the squad car pulled out of the driveway, Tandy sighed. "I have some work to get to anyway. Good session, people," she added.

Mary Jane grinned at Peter. "So do we have to drag you out of the drum set, or will you come quietly?"

"That depends," Peter shot back. "You gonna read me my rights?"

"You don't get rights. You got married," Mary Jane teased with a grin.

"Okay, no arguing that," Peter played along as he hauled himself to his feet and stretched. "Damn, that felt good."

Mary Jane's cell phone warbled, and she dug it out of her purse. "Hey," she answered amicably. Then her eyes widened, and she turned to Peter. "It's for you," she said.

"Peter here," he answered as he took the phone.

"This is Natasha," the voice on the other end said. "Logan is fighting the hunter on the roof by the dojo. I'm getting my weapons together. Hurry!"

"On my way," Peter said quickly. He hung up the phone and tossed it to Mary Jane. Then he turned to Tyrone.

"I gotta get across town. Right now," he said evenly. "How about it?"

Tyrone nodded grimly, then his face clenched in a scowl of effort. Darkness welled up in his eyes, his face twisted longer and sank into seamed pain. He breathed out, and a ripple of dark cloth poured out like steam on a cold day; moments later, he was swathed in a shroud so dark its highlights were iridescent blue shadow. The shroud flexed, and Tyrone opened his bottomless eyes. His face seemed to be made of ancient leather, or carved driftwood.

"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice deep and smooth and confident.

"Take me to Hyabusa's dojo," Peter said. "If you can let me peek out, I can steer."

"You want Tyrone and me to help?" Tandy asked, straightening, her inner vision momentarily branding a tattooed oval of light around one eye.

"I'm running low on friends," Peter replied seriously. "This thing killed Kravinoff. Logan and Natasha are already involved." He hesitated. "Thanks, but I'd rather you stay out of harm's way on this one."

"You sure?" Tandy asked. She wasn't.

"Trust me," Peter replied. "I'm sure."

The darkness swept around him and then curled into itself, and Tandy exchanged a look with Mary Jane.

"Men," Mary Jane shrugged. "Want some help packing all this up?"

**xXx**

The hunter effortlessly sprang across the gap between buildings, and Logan felt his pulse hammering in his ears. The hunter. Huge. Logan had no more doubt about how it had circumvented Stark's fence. The massive creature slammed down, and Logan's jaw clenched.

"This fella aint bigger'n Creed was," he grunted. "Let's go."

Logan darted in, driving at the monster with his claws. The huge hunter deflected his strike, but Logan's other fist rammed claws into the hunter's leg. Logan's muscles bulged as he leaned into his mighty strike, and he felt the claws punch through tough flesh and scritch against bone. The hunter let out an unearthly scream, flexing his leg. Logan dragged at his claws, trying to free himself, but he wasn't fast enough.

The hunter smashed a backhand across him, the claws laying his face open and drawing sparks from his skull as he was flung back, his claws jerked free. He smacked through the brick of a stairwell roof access, slamming off the opposite wall, toppling down the stairs in a shower of bricks and dust, unable to tell which way was up.

A shadow loomed over the hole, and a peculiar liquid rolling clatter hissed out of the big hunter. It dropped through the hole Logan had bashed in the wall, thudding down on the rubble and crushing bricks to dust. Logan rolled into the door, swiped up, chopping the doorknob off. He felt feeble as he pushed the door open, and he almost blacked out when he saw the narrow hallway of an apartment building. No room to work.

He flexed his torso, rolling his knees over his head, then rising to a crouch and then to stand tall facing the massive hunter that filled the stairwell.

"Awright," he managed, blood sluicing down the torn mask of his facial flesh. He spat blood. "Let's dance."

He hopped forward, claws slashing; the hunter's wrist blade deflected one strike, and the other hand caught his wrist and jerked him up off his feet. Logan slung a kick into the hunter's belly, and it thudded against hard walls of muscle layered against each other. The hunter flexed and tossed, and Logan found himself sailing through the air down the corridor; whipping his claws out, he winced as they punched into the walls and doorframes and doors, describing an arc of descent. He landed on his feet, yanking his claws clear of the shredded walls. Then he charged the hunter again.

Dropping in a tumble, he counted on the walls hemming the hunter's bulk and limiting his options. Logan popped up slashing at a knee, and the strike was deflected. Too late, the hunter realized the other fist swiped at his face. With a ringing screech and a puff of sparks, Logan raked his claws across the hunter's mask. Part of the mask fell away as Logan rolled back out of easy reach. He rose to his feet.

Beneath the mask, a mandible flexed like some greasy claw-tipped finger.

"What _are_ you?" Logan breathed.

The hunter reached back, pulling a peculiar shape from its belt. Logan braced himself; the hunter tapped a stud, and the object seemed to extrude into a gun of some sort. Logan's eyes widened as the predator lined up on him. He spun, dashing towards the end of the hall.

The speargun fired, and a two-tined dart hissed from the gun. It caught Logan in the back, between his hip and his ribcage. Effortlessly shearing through his tough flesh, it holed him, but bracketed a low rib in adamantium points. The momentum flung him forward to smack into the wall, and the dart dug deep into the concrete. For a moment, Logan could only hang breathless as the exquisite bloom of pain from the unnaturally clean incision flowed through him.

His breath hissed unevenly as his trembling palms pressed against the wall, he gathered himself to push free. Then the hunter's wrist blades plunged into the meat of his lower back, and he couldn't even scream as they ripped clear.

Deeply wounded, Logan could only struggle to blink as the huge hunter's strangely gentle hands cupped around his head, turning it this way and that, as though the hunter was studying the shape of his skull.

He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the hunter was purring.


	6. Showdown

**xXx**

The Shroud unfurled from the dimness behind an air conditioning unit, and the spider ghost sprang out. Peter wore the black mesh, with pale eyespots. He turned to Tyrone, who was the Shroud.

"Okay, thanks. Now get out of here, okay?" He turned his back on Tyrone, bounding to the edge of the roof and looking around.

Cops swarming the dojo. Burns along a roof, in an alley. There, across on the next roof; more day-glo green blood, and a hole battered in a stairwell.

The spider ghost easily cleared the leap over the alley, ducked through the hole, following the alien blood. He dropped down to look down the hallway in time to see the hunter drawing back for a strike to take Logan's head clean off.

"This isn't over," he said coldly, and web spat out and hissed the length of the hallway, slopping over the forearm greave that bore the two wicked blades. The hunter spun to face the spider ghost, his mask cut, leg oozing a fluorescent green.

The hunter's mask flicked out three laser sights, and a small device that looked like a hair dryer popped up on the hunter's shoulder. The spider ghost needed no encouragement to spring out of the way back up the steps as a blazing barrage of energy bolts screamed down the corridor and detonated messily all over the stairs that led to the roof. The hunter turned away from Logan and jogged after the spider ghost. Left to his own devices, Logan pushed off the wall and toppled, blood gushing from him, his healing factor desperately kicking into overdrive to staunch the flow.

The spider ghost flipped up through the hole, up to the roof. A succession of blasts behind him blew the door and walls apart, sending a chunk of the roof collapsing into the crater of explosions. The spider ghost landed easily enough, wary, alert as he studied the rubble.

The hunter burst up through the debris as sirens wailed to a halt on the street by the building. The spider ghost wrinkled his nose in distaste at the idea of public fighting in the daytime, especially as police presence would complicate the affair. This thing would mow the police down.

With a single mighty leap, the hunter was free of the shattered stairwell, facing off on the roof. It flexed and settled, ignoring its wounded leg. _ Fight me _ it croaked, and a menacing clattering hiss rolled from it.

Peter launched to the side, flexing out golf-ball sized wads of webbing that expanded as they flew. The hunter's cannon shredded the first two, but the third whapped against the hunter's shoulder. Energy bolts trailed destruction as they pounded after the agile spider ghost, who suddenly startled the hunter by springing right at him.

Peter landed a powerful punch right across the face mask, knocking the hunter flat. A fluid gob of web sprayed down over the shoulder cannon, clotting it. Peter hoped that would be enough to put it out of action. Bounding straight up, Peter pointed down and hosed with the webbing, sending thick adhesive raining down over the fallen hunter.

As Peter dropped to perch on a chimney's side, the hunter seemed to struggle in the web, trying to reach his belt. Then a strange hum reverberated from inside the webbing, and a blade slid through the webs as though they were wet tissue paper. The spider ghost stared in horror as the hunter rose, monolithic and deadly, and raised a disc that had five finger-holes in it. Twice the size of a frisbee, the disc hummed with a strange life of its own. The hunter's mask sent its three beams playing over the spider ghost, and the hunter flung the disk.

Peter sprang to the side as the disc effortlessly sheared through the chimney, then banked up steeply and twirled around to hiss down at him again.

He fired webbing at the disc, but the ultra-sharp blade whistled through it; unanchored, the filaments drifted in the pale sky, glistening as they caught the blaze of the sun. Peter ducked under the lethal pass of the disk as it whipped past him and homed in on the hunter, who snatched it out of the air and held it by the five finger holes.

Peter twisted away as the hunter flung the disk again, and it skimmed through his space a lot closer than he wanted it to. Peter sucked in a bit of mesh from the mask and bit it off, leaving himself an opening. He cartwheeled over by the hunter and spat out a thin stream of spit that spattered on the hunter's leg greave.

Too late, Peter noticed that the hunter had a different gadget in his other hand. The hunter flexed, and with a peculiar pop, the snubbish pistol fired at the spider ghost.

Dodging a projectile would have been easy. Off balance, Peter couldn't quite evade the net that whipped out and spun open. He leaped back and to the side, but the net corrected slightly. It lashed across him, then slapped into the concrete wall of the building next door. With a thin whine, the net began to tighten down, and Peter realized the net was contracting between anchor points set in concrete.

He resisted his first idea, to push free. The filaments of the web were very, very sharp; sharper than even _his_ tough body could withstand. Zero leverage. The spider ghost's mind raced as the mesh printed through his mesh and patterned his skin.

"Oh, this just _glistens_ with irony," Peter gritted out.

The hunter raised the hand with the disk, and nodded slightly.

Gunfire crackled from the edge of the roof as Natasha leaned into the assault rifle, pouring a stream of bullets into the hunter. The hunter staggered back, loops and gobs of pale green blood flying clear as the bullets slammed home, knocking the massive creature off his feet to crash down on the roofing.

The gun clattered to empty, and Natasha tossed it aside and whipped a .50 caliber handgun from its holster at her side. The hunter slowly rolled over to brace himself on his elbows and knees. Natasha took aim, fired repeatedly at the hunter. One bullet drew sparks from the mask, two thudded into ribs, another off the greave the creature raised to protect itself. Then the hunter sprang upright, however unsteadily, and toppled off the roof.

Natasha watched alertly through her gunsmoke as the thin whine of the winch drew the net tighter across the spider ghost.

"Help," Peter managed.

Natasha knelt, quickly reloading the assault rifle. Then she lined up, firing on the concrete wall. The bullets pounded the concrete apart, and the anchor points of the net flew free. The spider ghost clung to the wall, limp, as patches of his mesh fluttered away. Most were glued in place with his blood.

"Time to regroup," Natasha said quickly, eyeing the approaching police helicopter.

"Take care of Logan, he's downstairs," Peter replied. Then he dropped out of sight.

Natasha hesitated. But only for a moment. She jumped down onto the rubble, slid on her rear end down through the top of the shattered doorway, and ended up in the hall. She approached Logan where he sprawled on the floor. Frowning, kicked an apartment door open. She dragged him inside, and slammed the door.

Kneeling at his side, she checked for a pulse. Weak, erratic, but there. She slapped him resoundingly, and Logan's eyes drifted lazily open.

"My dead?" he wondered.

"You live," she clarified. "You must focus. You are losing a lot of blood. Work with me. I'll get you back to Stark's place, and we'll get you fixed up."

"Peter?" Logan slurred.

"He's chasing it," Natasha replied. "We drove it off."

Logan smiled faintly, then his head lolled back. She checked again to make sure he hadn't died. Then she whipped a cell phone from her pocket.

"Stark. I need an evac. Now. I can get us out of the building, past the police, but we need a ride. Here's the situation," she began.

**xXx**

The spider ghost slapped down in an alley. Trembling. He shook off the pain, his body criss-crossed with shallow, painful cuts from the net. Working fast, he sprayed himself with web. He was flexible enough to hit every place he needed to for a quick and dirty bandage fix. The pale fluid contrasted with the black mesh that survived, because it was unpainted. Now a strange mottled gray, the spider ghost bounded at the side of the building and quickly regained the rooftop.

He trotted to the edge of the roof, sniffing. He picked up the strong scent of the phermonal saliva he had planted on the hunter. Suddenly, a roar of fury and pain echoed up from the tenement buildings and concrete canyons of the New York streets below. Narrowing his eyes, Peter dropped off the roof.

Thoughts raced through his mind. Had the hunter met up with cops? No gunshots, so it seemed unlikely the hunter was in a shootout. Maybe he fell. Maybe blood loss affected him, forcing the hunter to go to ground. Following the twists and wafts of the biological tracer, the spider ghost fired out web and swung along the trail of the hunter.

Blood was beginning to seep through the web bandage as Peter dropped down on a roof, regarding the broken wall across the way. A bathroom was spraying water; the stool and sink had been smashed, and green gooey blood was smeared everywhere. As the spider ghost's senses played across the opposite destroyed bathroom, he detected traces of some blue gunk as well, and a horrific smell poured out of the broken room.

The blood trail stopped there.

"He must have patched himself up," Peter muttered. "Let's go."

To track this hunter, blood trails were strictly optional.

The spider ghost whirled into action, following the scent trail. Clearing a building, he looked across several blocks and saw the glittering sheet of the harbor. The docks lie straight ahead along the hunter's path.

"This isn't good," Peter muttered. And he dashed off after the hunter.

A handful of strands carried him across the intervening blocks, the tracer getting stronger as he swung through the hunter's back trail.

Finally, he released the last web and let himself sail down, his spider sense precisely calculating his trajectory. Skidding to a halt in the grungy back alley, he glanced around and saw no one watching.

He sniffed, and his senses unreeled, following the trail to the edge of the dock and over.

"I hate water," the spider ghost muttered. But he followed the trail.

Around and over the edge, the trail moved into a huge concrete drain pipe that vented directly into the harbor. The spider ghost twirled around and dropped into the shallow water in the pipe. Then, he stalked into the dimness, alert, his senses playing all around him to make certain that nothing waited for him, visible or otherwise.

Faint light drifted down from drains, and the occasional bare bulb illuminated the dimness. Peter glanced around frequently.

"Good thing I tagged him," he muttered. "Otherwise, I'd _never_ be able to track him down here." A green, luminescent smear caught his eye, and Peter smiled. "There you are," he murmured, and he followed the wounded hunter ever closer to his lair.

Ten minutes later, he scuttled along the top of the half-flooded tube. The tube opened into darkness, and the spider ghost peered out.

There, partially submerged, a wicked-looking craft was attached to the side of the damp concrete cavern with peculiar grapples. Over thirty meters long, it was as impressive as it was alien. The spider ghost stared for a long moment.

Danger flashed through his mind, and he sprang to the side instinctively.

A long spear thrust up from the water under the spider ghost; instead of spitting him, it rammed through his shin and pinned him to the roof of the concrete tube. The spider ghost cut loose a hoarse scream of pain and rage as the cold trickle of excessive blood loss touched his nerves, the spear shaft already laced with runnels of his blood.

_ This isn't over _ hissed the hunter, emerging in a swell from the water below the spider ghost. With a ringing clack, wrist blades popped out, and the hunter drew back for a strike.

The spider ghost fired out a wad of web that slapped over the hunter's mask, hopefully blinding him. The spider ghost gritted his teeth, and jerked at the spear that pinned his leg to the roof. It slid through his flesh, along his bone, and clear with a slithering rasp. The spider ghost could barely stay adhered to the roof, the pain was intense and it swept all rational thought aside.

Spinning, the hunter dove into the filthy water and vanished beneath the surface. Hanging by one leg, the spider ghost jammed the spear into the floor of the tube. Then he pinched the front of his leg wound together, webbed it. Repeated the process with the other side of his leg, then wove a thick band of heavy web to tie tight over the injury. He kept an eye on the spear.

"You're not getting away," he whispered, glancing at the ship. Then he snatched the spear and scuttled along the top of the tube, to the concrete wall, taking his time and clambering along the side of the corridor to approach the ship.

He stilled at once as he saw the hunter clamber out of the water onto the dock, then approach the ship. Tapping at a control on the wrist greave, the hunter seemed to sag with pain and fatigue for just a moment. Then the back of the ship opened, hissing as the hull slid aside to reveal a portal into the unknown.

The spider ghost stared for a long moment. The strange dark fabric of the ship's interior was laced and woven with what looked like runes in a peculiar language. A gleam of light chased through the runes, like impulses in a nervous system. The hunter hopped over to the back of the ship, landing with a thud, and limped into the portal. He triggered a catch on the side, and the hull began to twist shut.

"Hell," grunted the spider ghost. He dug the spear into the wall, then launched across the open space with a mighty kick, landing with a roll and popping up to sail through the closing portal at the last possible moment.

He landed in a tumble, springing to his feet as his heart hammered with nerves. Glancing around, he was gratified to still be alive, knowing full well the possibility this place would be rigged with dozens of traps and security systems.

The air was acrid and bitter, stifling, faintly toxic. The spider ghost coughed slightly, and the hunter turned to regard him.

They both stood in waist-deep mist that slowly churned and twisted around them. As the spider ghost focused on the hunter, his senses unwound to take in the rest of the room at the same time.

Other corridors led off into the ship, which seemed differently shaped on the inside than it had on the outside. The spider ghost's senses couldn't make it all work, so he gave up. The patterns on the wall threw depth perception out the window, and the peculiar atmosphere made thinking difficult.

Along the side wall, the spider ghost registered a trophy case. All sorts of bizarre skulls adorned it, along with some spines; some oblong skulls, others horned and squat, all shapes and sizes.

Including _human_ shapes and sizes.

The spider ghost tightened his jaw as he sensed Kravinoff's skull.

With a hiss, the tube connecting to the hunter's mask disconnected. The hunter pulled another tube clear, then tugged the broken mask off and let it fall to the floor with a non-metallic thud. The spider ghost stared at the visage the mask had hidden.

Small, piggish eyes were sunken in heavy bone sockets. A strange, oval forehead was spotted and greasy, sweeping up above the narrowly placed eyes. The mouth was a peculiar, small, gnashing affair, flanked by mandibles that flexed like clawed, fleshy fingers.

Alien. _Definitely_ alien.

The spider ghost felt weariness coursing through his remaining blood, and his wound stung. His leg would not support him, and he just wanted to lay down and doze. Still, facing off with the hunter, a dark fire blazed in him.

This had to be finished.

He fired out a web line and tugged Kravinoff's skull out of the display, so it slapped home in his hand. He swiftly squirted web to the ceiling, rubbed off the other end on the skull, and released the skull so it slowly spun and dangled on a web cable. Then he stepped to the side, and settled into a combat stance.

The alien nodded curtly, then squared off with the spider ghost.

_ Fight me _ the alien hunter hissed. The spider ghost realized that the mouth didn't move; perhaps a playback device? Then the curiosity went away. So did the weariness, the pain, the doubt; everything that could get the spider ghost killed was hushed to silence, and a creature made of focus was ready to battle the hunter.

With unsettling speed, the hunter darted forward and lashed out with the wrist blades. The spider ghost hopped to the side, too badly hurt to be fancy. He caught the hunter's wrist with his adhesive grip, and slung a knee up with shattering force, slamming the blue-gooped bullet wounds in the hunter's chest. A muffled choke coughed out, and green flecked out of the hunter's maw.

Too wound up to even slow down, the spider ghost slammed a heavy backhand across the hunter's head, sending him reeling. He bounded in, kicking the blades out of the way with his good leg and smashing a blow straight down into the hunter's chest, knocking him down so hard the mist was shoved away from the floor for meters in all directions. Rebounding, he twisted in the air as the hunter struggled to sit up. A foot shot down and smashed into the hunter's forehead, knocking him flat with a clang.

Landing in a painful hobble, the spider ghost struggled to get out of reach of whatever trick the hunter might try next. He blinked in surprise as a deep chuckle rolled out of the hunter's playback device. Trembling as though palsied, the hunter managed to raise the greave up, tapping at buttons that responded with a muted chirp.

"I think my work here is finished," the spider ghost growled, claiming Kravinoff's skull. The hunter lay back, arms spread, his obstructed breathing letting bubbles of green goo out of his breached chest. Peter hesitated, wondering if he could accept letting the hunter die here. He hesitantly stepped closer to the hunter, then his senses locked in on the greave.

A countdown?

Cold shudders raced through the injured spider ghost. Turning, he hobbled towards the craft's exit. His senses rolled around the interior corridor, isolating the door switch. He hit it, and the hatch cycled open.

On a bizarre impulse, he hit it again as he hopped out, sealing the dying hunter in his ship. Then he sprang for the wall, and scuttled up to the spear.

The world flexed. The spider ghost barely clung to the wall as dust puffed out of the walls and the water roared up in a whoosh. Light shone from a few seams on the ship, then it slowly listed to the side and began to sink.

By the time the bubbles ceased, the spider ghost was long gone.


	7. Death & Confession

**xXx**

"That's nearly two hundred staples," the doctor said to Peter. He shook his head. "Be careful, and they should be removed in three weeks. I am informed that with your metabolism, less than one. Still, don't push your luck. That's a nasty collection of cuts." The doctor glanced at Stark, then turned his attention to Logan in the next bed.

"How do you feel, champ?" Stark asked quietly. Natasha stood at his side.

"Like I just got cut to pieces by an alien, that's how I feel," Peter replied tersely. "You're sure I got no rads?"

"No radiation," Stark confirmed. "Whatever the blast was, the ship must have contained it. I figure I might send a team to recover it."

"You could get the hull, maybe, but the rest is trashed," Peter shrugged. "You weren't there, you didn't see it go up."

"Humor me," Stark said with a small smile. "Good work."

"Thanks," Peter shrugged. "So… I know, it's weird as hell. But can you take Kravinoff's skull to his island? Bury that? I want him to rest easy, believe me," Peter said with half a grin.

"He will," Logan said, hoarse. The doctor glanced at the charts, nodded, and left the room. "Stark," he rasped on. "Any word on that spear?"

"It's adamantium, as you suspected," Stark said.

"The hunter had a spear, nets, darts, a gun, a disk, who knows what else," Peter said slowly. "D'you think there might be enough gear on one of those things to lace a skeleton and make claws?"

"Based on the mass tests we've been doing?" Stark said. "Yes. About exactly the same amount."

"So whatever genius worked with the Project and gave me my skeleton must know about these things," Logan mused, "as well as how to shape the stuff."

"That's alarming," Natasha said mildly.

"Now we know about them too," Peter said, "so _that's_ a silver lining. Can't wait for the next one," he added sourly. He sighed. "I gotta be getting home, check on Mary Jane, go see Aunt May." Wearily, he hauled himself up off the table.

"Want a ride?" Stark asked, concerned.

"No," Peter said with a small smile. "I can still make it home. Thanks, though."

"Pete," Logan said quietly. "Looks like I owe you another one. You ever get in trouble, I'll be there."

"Nobody's keeping score," Peter replied. "Natasha saved my life, you saved hers, we're just a bunch of people who should know better flinging ourselves into danger. Don't spare it a second thought. It's what we do." He nodded to them with a smile, and he ducked out.

"Nice young man," Natasha observed.

"Sometimes," Logan amended, leaning back. "Sometimes."

**xXx**

Peter stumbled into the living room, gratefully sinking into a chair at the table. He saw a note, swift writing scrawled on it.

_May dying_

_Can't reach you_

_Come quick_

For a moment, Peter was shocked and motionless as the news sank in. He popped up out of the chair, squirming out of his clothes, his flesh tugging painfully on the staples that held him together. He dashed into the bedroom, tugged out a box and tossed the lid aside, yanked the mesh clear. Stripped, he started dragging the mesh on; pain quickly stopped him, and he slid the mesh carefully over the staples that held his wounds closed.

Then he gathered up clothes, tugged the mesh over his face, and darted out the rear window into the alley. He reached the roof, and sagged as his thudding heart fought the weariness and wounds that dragged at him like heavy chains.

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and flung himself off the building. Firing out web cables, he swooped over the city in what looked like lazy arcs.

His cut hands stung as blood seeped from them. His grip was watery, stupid. He felt off-center, heavy. As he slung wide over the interstate, he felt a powerful urge just to let go and tumble down in front of a truck. He could hardly move his arms enough to keep the kinetic, high-energy swoops going.

Blood began to seep through his mesh.

"I must get there," he hissed through his teeth, desperate.

And the pain grew to be too much.

Peter Parker quietly seeped away, and the spider ghost carried on the task.

**xXx**

Peter pushed the door out of the way, staggering out of the men's room. He hobbled as fast as he could to the elevator, feeling speed gone from him, feeling a thousand pains racing through his nerves.

The elevator gradually ascended as the battered young man glanced at his jacket, not caring that he was dressed for chilly weather during the hottest stretch of the year. He tried not to breathe, tried not to press against anything that would reveal the blood in seeping through his mesh and into his clothes. He did _not_ want to try to explain why he was bleeding, not here in a hospital.

Peter pushed his way out of the elevator and tried to jog, headed for Aunt May's room. He slowed as he arrived; Mary Jane stood in the hallway, hugging herself tightly, looking away as she fought tears.

"MJ!" he managed, hoarse, and he staggered to her.

She whirled around to look at him with eyes that shone with unshed tears. She couldn't say anything. Peter's sharp hearing heard the doctor in Aunt May's room.

"She's gone. Record the time."

His breath left him in a shudder, as though he had been hammered. Limping past Mary Jane, he hesitantly approached.

Lifeless, the old woman lay in state on the hospital bed. Even in death, creases of worry mapped her face. Peter reached the bed, touched her chilly hand.

This time he didn't need to glance at the machines to make sure she was still alive.

"You must be Peter Parker," the doctor said, watching him. Peter could only nod. The doctor hesitated fractionally. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and he left the room.

Peter followed, questions whirling in his unsettled mind, but he was too slow to catch up and ask anything further. He stopped, turning to Mary Jane as tears welled in his eyes.

"I missed it," he whispered. "I didn't… I wasn't…"

"Come on," she replied, looking away. "Let's get you out of here."

They got an elevator to themselves. In great pain, Peter struggled not to break down. Mary Jane said nothing, not on the trip down, or the walk to the parking lot. They settled down into the car.

"She was waiting for you, Peter," she said quietly as the street lamps strobed by overhead. "Then… she just couldn't hold on any longer."

Peter's unsteady breaths became shudders as the first tears flowed.

Mary Jane patted him on the back, the road blurry before her. She glanced at her hand, warm and slick with his blood, and she bit her lip as she saw it soaking through his clothes in irregular blotches.

"Let's get you home," she said softly, swallowing hard.

**Saturday, September 4 2004**

Peter tossed the shovel full of dirt down into the hole, on the mahogany box. He stepped back, his face drawn and pale. He was strikingly handsome in his dark suit and black tie. He surrendered the shovel and resumed his black cane, leaning on it heavily. Mary Jane, also in black, was veiled. She took his arm and held him close.

Peter looked across the grave. Illyana and Tandy stood together, Gwen beside them. All blonde, all beautiful. He saw the narrow pixie face, now serious, of his former roommate Harry. Tyrone looked slim and solemn, his troubled features seemed carved in place. Captain Stacy stood by his daughter, gazing down into the grave. Peter wondered if the old man felt the shadow of his own grave creeping up behind him. He shook the feeling off, shivering slightly. Mary Jane squeezed his arm, leaned close.

As the service ended, Peter turned. "I don't want to be social today," he murmured to Mary Jane, who nodded. They turned and left the scene, not waiting for well-wishers.

Pounding footsteps approached from behind. Peter frowned.

"What is it, Logan," he said, not looking up.

"Just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened," Logan said gruffly. "Really. Hey, I missed you at Kravinoff's funeral."

"I was planning this one," Peter said sharply. He glared away from Logan and picked up the pace.

Logan let him go, watching as the slim young man lurched away on his injured leg. Then he sighed, fishing a cigar out of his coat pocket.

An attractive young woman strolled up to his side as he bent over his cupped hand, lighting his cigar. "Is he okay?" she asked.

"Nope," Logan replied. "That fella is _not_ okay. But we gotta give him some space. We all gotta deal with loss our own way. He lost somethin he can't ever get back. He didn't just lose the only parents he ever knew. He lost a moment in time." He looked over at the young woman. "How bout it, Illyana. I'm feelin the need fer some pizza, beer, and darts."

"I'll call Piotr," she replied with half a smile.

"You do that," Logan nodded, watching as Peter ducked into his car. "You do that."

**xXx**

"I'm exhausted," Peter said, his voice hardly above a whisper as he stumbled into the living room and folded down on the couch.

"I can tell," Mary Jane replied with a stab at humor. "You never make it all the way to the car still wearing your jacket and tie if you're even close to healthy." She tried a smile.

Peter leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was strangely quiet. "No matter how long you know it's going to happen," he said softly, "you can't prepare for it. Aunt May… She's always been there. And now she isn't." His breathing was slightly uneven.

Mary Jane glanced around the apartment, then settled on the couch next to Peter. "So… are we going to move into Aunt May's house?"

"No," Peter said flatly. "I decided to sell it. Within an hour of putting it on the market, I had a buyer. Movers are taking her stuff to a storage unit tomorrow. We can pick out anything we want to keep in the morning, they'll be there in the afternoon." He blearily regarded his wife. "Almost covers her debts. I have enough saved up to get rid of the rest."

Mary Jane absently rubbed at her exposed upper arm, feeling oddly chilled. "Peter? I know losing Aunt May is hard for you. But… Something else is the matter. Come on, you can talk to me. Do I have to scold you for six months first?" she asked wryly, feeling odd as her humor fell flat against his eerie calm.

"I should have been there," Peter murmured, his eyes clouded. "I had no call to be swinging around in my playsuit while Aunt May, my only living blood relative, was dying in the hospital. Her life hung by a _thread_, and I was out on safari. I…" Words failed him. A single tear slid free, glittering down his cheek, his eyes strange.

"Hey," Mary Jane soothed, taking his hands in hers and shifting around to kneel in front of him, gazing up into his eyes. "You were being true to yourself. You were helping the city. Aunt May would be proud of you. You are a hero, Peter. You're _my_ hero." Her smile didn't falter as she looked into his luminescent, wounded eyes.

A shudder passed through him, and his eyes focused. "Hero?" he said, straining to keep sharpness from his voice. He blinked, sending tears out of his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. He almost smiled, a sort of grimace. "Mary Jane. Let me tell you a story." He cleared his throat as his calmness settled again. "A story about my Uncle Ben."

Mary Jane blinked. "You never talk about him," she said quietly.

"Right," Peter nodded. "We'll get to that. August of 1993, I was fourteen. Eleven years ago, almost exactly," he noted, a quiver in his voice. He cleared his throat again. "My powers were starting to manifest, and I was having… some trouble dealing with that. Uncle Ben thought I was being secretive. So he confronted me, at last. I pushed the old man," he said, his hand trembling slightly as he gestured. "That was before… before I knew my own strength. He hit a wall. He broke."

Mary Jane sat motionless, staring at Peter as he gazed into space. Peter shrugged slightly. "The old man died, right there, done in by my own hand. It wasn't what I wanted. At least, not what Peter Parker wanted. But Ben was piecing things together. And the darkness at the heart of my powers… my spider ghost, if you will… well, maybe it wanted Uncle Ben to have… an accident."

Peter shifted slightly, his eyes clearing. "Anyway. I didn't know what to do, so… so the spider ghost repressed the memory. Took over, like it does when I'm in danger. Beat the old man's head in with a pipe, took the wallet, and got me home. When I resumed the helm as Peter Parker, I was free of the burden of the memory of what I had done. The spider ghost covered its tracks and mine with calculated precision. And it wasn't until last winter… that I found out."

The clock ticked in the background.

"So," Peter said, his voice empty of emotion, "I am left to wonder. Maybe I was out protecting the city." He paused. "Or maybe I was too weak to make my life a higher priority than the spider ghost's agenda." He closed his eyes for a long moment.

Then he abruptly rose, stepping around Mary Jane. He glanced down at her, but didn't meet her eyes. "I'm wiped out," he said distantly. "I don't want anything from Aunt May's house. You can go pick up whatever strikes your fancy." He gestured vaguely. "I'm going to go sleep for a couple days." Still fully dressed and formal, he turned and headed down the hall to the bedroom.

The door closed behind him.

After a while, Mary Jane rose to her feet and glanced around. She hesitantly approached the phone, feeling strangely vulnerable and isolated. Picking the phone up, she got halfway through punching in Gwen's number. She paused, then hung up the phone. Picked it up after a moment, punched in some of Harry's phone number. Her finger hovered in the air, then she hung the phone up again and bit her lip.

"I _must_ be desperate," she murmured to herself as she picked up the phone and started dialing her family's number. But she wondered what she'd say. And she gently replaced the phone in the cradle.

Forlorn, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed out the window. A deep, subtle rumble of thunder echoed outside. Then, at long last, a gust of wind battered the loose windows.

Mary Jane dully gazed out on the baking city as the heat wave finally broke, the first breath of rain sweeping across the barren heat that stretched out as far as the eye could see.


	8. Part II begins Close & Open

**PART TWO**

**Wednesday, September 15 2004**

A lean shadow ducked through the gap in the fence. A flashlight flicked on, catching him square in the face. He scowled against the light.

His hair was black, cropped close to his head. Bright blue eyes probed the dim form that held the flashlight. He was powerfully built, lean, dressed stylishly.

"You Quentin Beck?" the shadow holding the flashlight asked in a whiskey-roughened voice.

"I used to be," he said with some irritation. "Get the light out of my face."

The thug chuckled, turning the flashlight around to illuminate a path that led behind the broken parking lot towards a slightly sagging abandoned building. "Right this way," he said. His guest followed.

They reached the back door of the building. A restaurant of some sort. The thug fumbled with a keyring, picked a key, unlocked the door. The two men ducked inside, ignoring the musty stink of the place. They passed the deep fryers and food racks, turning by the counter that overlooked the still and silent dining area. Then down a short hallway to a door that opened over stairs leading down, illuminated by a single bare bulb screwed into a cage on the wall.

Feet scraping on the rough concrete, the two men headed down the stairs and past two other well-armed men with shifty eyes. Finally, they passed through a door to the wide open basement.

It was lit only by candles, so most of the room was in shadow. They could see only the suggestion of the outline of a huge man, impossibly huge, resting in the dark corner.

"It's been a long time," the newcomer said, his voice bitter. "What do you want, Fisk."

The big man shifted slightly. "Quentin Beck," he murmured, his voice deep and powerful. "So glad you could respond to my invitation."

"I'm not Quentin Beck anymore. I've put my criminal past behind me. I'm Simon Elgin. And I just came here to say that whatever you want, the answer is no."

"Hear me out," Fisk rumbled. Elgin tightened his jaw, and said nothing. Fisk nodded to himself. "I will give you a million dollars. Enough to get out of all your debt. Enough to get back on your feet again, and do whatever you want. You can even quit your job as a funhouse consultant."

"What do you want in exchange," Elgin asked, unwillingly interested.

"Get a man out of prison. Then task him with four assassination jobs. I will provide you with funds, intelligence, equipment. You will be my representative to this man, and you will help him find his way out of jail. The assassin is not to know who I am; all contact is to be through you."

Elgin hesitated fractionally, then shook his head. "No. Too risky. I don't want to start over again. Thanks for thinking of me, good luck with the next stooge on your list." He backed towards the door.

"Aw c'mon, it's a short list," drawled a playful voice. Elgin whipped around, eyes widening, to see a whipcord lean man with cold eyes and a lazy smile leaning in the doorway.

"Ledge," he breathed, his heart racing.

"Now see, I changed my name too. I'm Jack Ebony now." His smile widened. "Just hear the man out a minute longer. This was just getting interesting."

Elgin backed sideways, so he could look back and forth between Fisk's shadowed bulk and Ebony's unpredictable threat.

"I want things to go smoothly," Fisk rumbled. "I emptied one of my Cayman accounts. I have your million on hand, and more besides." He paused. "I know you betrayed me once before. But I have no hard feelings. A man in my position is more keenly alert for possible loyalty than bent on crushing everyone who wronged him. You were loyal once. I want you to be so again, for the space of a single extended deal. Please… Elgin."

Ebony wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. "Gotta admit, it's a sweet deal," he said mildly.

Elgin eyed Ebony. "So… who do you want broken out of jail?"

**Thursday, September 16 2004**

The door was kicked at, and it swung open. Mary Jane stepped in, dumping her purse and bag and satchel on the table, taking her keys out of her mouth and dropping them too. She turned and shut the door, then glanced into the living room.

Peter slouched on the sofa, his eyes dull and weary, his feet up as he watched the flickering television. Some ad for shaving gel. Mary Jane stretched out her weary shoulders, kicked off her shoes, and padded over to him.

"Hey tiger, how was your day?" she asked.

"nnn," he grunted. He blinked, looked up at her. His new beard was still shaggy stubble. He tried on a smile. "My day was long and I'm glad it's over. How about yours, beautiful?"

"Well, neither one of us is off the hook yet. Tonight is our martial arts class," she reminded him.

He winced. "Damn. I forgot. You could—"

'—go without me, no, you're coming along," Mary Jane interrupted. "Now come on, get your gi and get ready. We can grab some McDonalds on the way over."

"I don't—" Peter began doubtfully.

"Up up up," Mary Jane said, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet. "Me crack whip. You jump. I really don't want to have this conversation again. Come on now." She headed back towards the bedroom to get her gi. Peter sighed, scratching at his stubble, and he glanced around.

"Right," he said to himself. "Okay."

**xXx**

Tyrone bared his teeth ferociously, shouting in rhythm to his strikes, his fists whipping out at Peter. Peter slapped the blows aside absentmindedly. Tyrone finished the set, and looked over at the slender blonde who was simply stunning in a gi.

She frowned critically at the two of them where they sparred on the mat in the drafty loft. She shook her head. "Wake up, Parker," she said.

He looked over at her. "I blocked all his strikes."

"Sure you did. You sissy slapped your way out of that. Which is fine because it's Tyrone, but if something stronger than you was attacking, that wouldn't even have slowed the blows down. Reach up, make a fist, twist your forearm to deflect the blow with the meat of your forearm instead of bone. Use the strength of your arm, shoulder, and torso to deflect the hit. You can't just coast on talent."

"Yes sensei," Peter sighed.

"Okay, Tyrone off the mat," Illyana said as she briskly approached Peter. "Now you are going to spar with me," she said to Peter.

"Yes sensei."

They bowed and opened, squared off. Illyana darted at him, feinted to the side. She whipped a couple strikes at him, he deflected them easily. She kicked at his shin, he twitched aside; he punched at her, and she actually leaned out of the way and spun along his angle. He scooted away, and she fired a kick backward that actually hit him.

She bowed and closed, as did he. She looked him in the eye, seeing a vague resentment and bored weariness.

"Parker," she said, "if I can touch you then you aren't good enough. Next time? Next time it could be your life on the line."

"I don't do that anymore," he said through his teeth. "The most dangerous thing I'm gonna run across is a mugger. And I can handle myself. You know what?" he continued, glancing around. "Never mind. Just never mind. I'm through." He untied his sash, let it fall, and he strode towards the edge of the mat. Mary Jane ran to intercept him, but he brushed past her without making eye contact. He left the dojo without bowing out, his footsteps echoing down the stairs. Mary Jane gazed after him.

"Mrs. Parker," Illyana said. Mary Jane turned to face her. "You can go after him if you need to," Illyana said in a gentler voice.

"You know what? No," Mary Jane said. She shook her head and returned to the line. "No, I'm good. I'll deal with him later. I'm here to learn. Let's keep going."

"Right," Illyana nodded. "Sparring, split up. Dani, you and Tandy. Tyrone and Mary Jane. Doug, with me. Take turns, three strikes, throws allowed as attack or defense. Spread out, take your own mat."

Mary Jane faced off with Tyrone. They regarded each other, bowed and opened. Settled into stance. Tyrone fired a kick at Mary Jane, she ducked aside and snatched his leg, kicked the back of his knee so it folded forward. Tyrone hit the mat with a slap and a shout, and Mary Jane let him go, helped him up. He grinned sheepishly at her.

"You a m-mean w-ww-woman," he chuckled.

"Yeah, guess so," she agreed ruefully, stealing a glance at the door, distracted.

**xXx**

Peter was lost in thought as he approached his apartment. His senses twitched, and he blinked and glanced around, sifting his surroundings.

There, leaning against the wall to his apartment building, was a man in a dapper trench coat. He smiled, his blue eyes bright, and Peter recognized him.

"Beck?" he said cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, Parker," he replied with a smile. "The name is Simon Elgin now, by the way. Six of one, half dozen of the other," he shrugged. "I've gone legit, I'm a businessman now."

"What do you want?" Peter asked flatly.

"I need your help, Parker," Elgin replied. "I'm starting a business, a magazine."

"Oh?" Peter asked, still wary.

"Yes, interior design," Elgin nodded. "I want to call it 'Innerosity' or 'Interiorate' or something catchy like that." He paused. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, I gotta change," Peter said, glancing down at the jacket he wore over his gi. "You better behave, I'm in a mood. You get out of line, believe you me, the smack will be laid down."

"That's fine," Elgin said with a small grin. "The smack. Gracious. Have you eaten?"

"Not really," Peter said. "You want to talk about this over some food?"

"Sure," Elgin agreed. He turned and pointed a device at the street, pushed a button. The BMW parked at the curb beeped once, its lights flashing. Peter regarded Elgin.

"You say you got a legal opportunity lined up, and you drive a Beemer?"

"Yes," Elgin said. "I've been doing consulting work for funhouses. There _are _ways that gifted people can legally make money, if they are creative enough. I have enough saved up to make this whole enterprise work." He smiled disarmingly. "I can't wait to go over the details with you."

"This I gotta hear," Peter muttered as he let himself into the building."

**xXx**

Tucked back in a booth, Peter smiled widely as the deep-dish pizza slid down on their table. "Enjoy," the server said, and he was gone.

"Dozens of restaurants within a mile of your house, and you want to go to a pizza pub," Elgin chuckled.

"Do not mock until you have partaken," Peter intoned, scooping a piece clear with his spatula. "Dear God, I may die if I don't get my teeth into this in the next ten seconds." He swiftly sprinkled parmesan cheese on it, then picked it up and bit the end off. Elgin shook his head with a slightly bemused smile, and he got a piece too.

"I have investors lined up," he said. "I'm going to go talk to one of them next Thursday, a week from today. Before I go into that appointment, I want my chief photographer on board. I've studied your work, Peter," he said seriously. "What you do for the Planetary is brilliant. It's edgy, it makes the viewer see the mundane in a whole new light. You can take a normal, boring room, and make it a mystery. You can take a mystery and lay it out so the viewer understands for the first time. You have a real gift, an eye for spatial relations, and under all that, a playful nature. You must understand, Peter, I _need_ your talent if my dream is going to work. And because I need you, I'm willing to pay to _get_ you. You'll be brilliant at this."

Peter regarded him. "That's high praise," he conceded. "But you tried to lure me into a criminal job once before. When does the other shoe fall? When does this cross the line into something I didn't sign on for?"

"It doesn't," Elgin said softly. He sipped his water, then looked Peter in the eye. "I'll level with you," he began. "I owe you. You saved my life, even when you wanted to kill me. Since I left you, I've been looking for a way to pay you back for that. And I don't hold my life as a light debt, either. I'd say it was nepotism that led me to offer you this sweet deal, but you know what? You're perfect for this in a way no one else on this Earth is, and I am honored to be the one to recognize that. To pay you what you're worth." His eyes were serious, his tone was even. Peter blinked.

"Can I still freelance for the Planetary?" he asked cautiously.

"There's enough of you to go around," Elgin nodded. "I'm guessing you work fast, faster than anyone suspects."

"I have to talk this over with my wife," Peter added.

"Naturally," Elgin agreed. "When you do," he said, pulling out a business card and a fountain pen, "show her my proposed first-year salary." He scribbled a number on the card, then slid it over to Peter. Whose eyes widened. Breathless, he stared at Elgin.

"All the decimals in the right place here?" he asked, startled.

Elgin leaned back with a smile. "Yes, Peter," he said. "No tricks. This offer is real."

"I think I need to be going," Peter managed.

"Let's get you a box for the pizza," Elgin grinned.

**xXx**

Peter let himself in, and Mary Jane stared at him.

"Parker," she barked, "where the _hell _have you been?"

"I left a note," he said, pointing at the table.

"Oh, yes, your note:" she said, picking it up and reading from it. "'MJ, out with old friend, DB.' So who is 'DB' supposed to be?"

"Danger Butt," he explained. "Look, I got some big news!" He put the boxed pizza on the table.

"I can't believe you walked out on—" Mary Jane began, but Peter stepped up to her and touched his finger to her lips.

"Mary Jane," he said. "Listen for just a second. I got a job offer!"

"What, between class and here?" she said, confused. He nodded.

"Check this out. Peter Parker, chief photographer for a new interior design magazine. Simon Elgin offered me the job, he's a guy I met when I was in college. He was visiting staff. He's been watching my work for the Planetary, he wants me on board for this. Check out how bad he wants me to come work for him," he said proudly, showing her the business card and its fateful figure.

Mary Jane's jaw dropped as she saw the proposed salary. "Dude, this is even written down," she said breathlessly. She looked at Peter. "What about the Planetary?"

"He even said I can still freelance for them if I've got the time," Peter grinned. "With this money, you don't have to work. You can quit your job at the doctor's office!" He picked up the phone.

"Whoah there, Peter," Mary Jane said, a hint of confusion in her eyes. "So were you going to come here and ask me what I think about this, or just tell me what you were going to do?"

He blinked, then slowly put the phone down. "Mary Jane, I just can't see how this _isn't_ brilliant," he said cautiously.

She turned away. "Look, I don't know _why_ this bothers me. But… it kind of does. Maybe you could just wait until tomorrow?"

"Sure," he said. "Sure," he repeated with a bit more conviction. "Look, MJ, if you don't want me to do this," he murmured, stepping up behind her and touching her upper arms. He cleared his throat. "You say you don't want this to happen, I won't do it," he said with a slight wince.

"I can't do that to you, Peter," she said quietly. "I just… this is big! I need a couple hours to grasp what this could mean for us."

"You got it, babe. You got it." Peter kissed the back of her head.

Mary Jane let her eyes slide closed, and tried to memorize that moment. Just in case. Just in case everything changed. She leaned back into her husband, and she gazed at the shifting dimness of the future.


	9. Bowing Out

**Saturday, September 18 2004**

Four heavyset guards escorted the powerful man into the infirmary. He wore a prison jumpsuit, and it strained to encompass the muscle mass of his arms and legs, The guards sat him down at the examination table, and cuffed him to it. Then they surrounded him, tense and ready. The door opposite the table opened, and a slim doctor hunched in.

He wore thick glasses, his pale hair was slicked back, his nose seemed to aim his eyes as he sniffed slightly. He glanced down at his clipboard.

"Castle, Frank," he observed. "Well, let's get your physical underway. Remove your coveralls and shirt, please."

With the guards supervising, Castle managed to get out of the jumpsuit. He peeled his shirt off, stripped down to briefs. He sat at the table again, eyes ahead, jaw clenched. His face was square and rugged, his dark hair slicked back from his face. His torso was sculpted with muscle and spattered with scar tissue. Blades, bullets, and fire had all printed their memory on his flesh.

The doctor briefly examined him, listening to his chest, checking his ears and mouth and eyes. Leaning back, the doctor nodded.

"You are quite healthy, in spite of the damage you've taken in here," he observed. Turning, he fumbled with his kit. "Let's get your blood pressure."

As he wrapped the cuff around Castle's arm, the big prisoner felt a sharp sting. He frowned at the doctor, who winked at him. Adrenaline threaded into Castle's blood as he glanced around; the guards were oblivious to the exchange.

Then the room began to spin, and Castle blinked. "I… I don't feel… so good," he managed.

He sank back into darkness.

**xXx**

Peter finished polishing the lens of the camera. He put it back in the bag as the door to the bedroom opened, and Mary Jane emerged fully dressed. She wore hip-hugging jeans slung low, and a midriff baring tee shirt.

"You taking pictures of the band today?" she asked, mildly surprised.

He blinked, then smiled slightly. "Oh right. Practice today." He hesitated.

"Peter," Mary Jane said, crossing her arms, "in case you were wondering, you were _not_ about to suggest you don't have to go."

"Maybe I was," he replied with a frown.

"First the martial arts class, now this? No. No no no."

"Hey, I have something to say about this, you know," Peter replied with some heat. "My livelihood is working for Strange. He's also at the center of the martial arts class, of the band. Is it so freaky to want some distance? I'm surprised you aren't squikked about it."

"Yeah, well, Strange met Tandy and Tyrone because _you_ introduced them," Mary Jane said. "And you met _them_ because _I_ introduced _you_. So what if I am the center of the social group?" She sat down next to him, leaned against him. "Come on, Peter. Strange doesn't even visit when we play clubs."

She batted her big, green eyes at him.

"Fine," he sighed. "Fine, I'll go."

"And you'd miss it if you didn't," she pressed.

"Yeah," he admitted slowly. "I would." He packed up his camera.

**xXx**

Castle was jarred awake as the van hit a pothole. Blinking, he managed to rub at his eyes; he was on a gurney, in the back of an ambulance. No guards. Just the doctor from the hospital.

"What's going on," he demanded gruffly, his voice hoarse. Every inch of his body hurt.

"I killed you, bang dead," the doctor grinned. "Congratulations, Frank Castle. Time of death was two hours, fifteen minutes ago." The doctor tugged off the glasses, peeled the prosthetic nose off. "As of right now, you're a free man. I have succeeded where so many others have failed, and your legend is over." He chuckled.

Castle's frown seemed chiseled into his face. "Why? What's your game?"

"My name is Quentin Beck," the doctor said. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I have used my backer's resources to get you out of prison because he has a task that needs doing, a task that requires a very specific sort of warrior. One like you, Castle. Certain law-breakers in New York need to be stopped. The police can't touch them." Beck paused. "You _can_."

Castle looked down at his chest, saw the burns from the paddle used to try to restart his heart. He coughed slightly. "Sounds interesting. Keep talking."

Beck nodded. "The Kallara family is first on the docket," he began. "Five leaders at the head of the family. I'm offering you five thousand for each of them, and five hundred for each of their soldiers. I know that's dirt cheap wages, but you must understand that procuring as much temporary blindness and lost paperwork as I did to get you out of prison was… well, not cheap."

Castle regarded him. "I've heard of the Kallaras," he said. "If I'm gonna do this, I need certain tools to do it right. And intelligence about their movements. If I have to collect it myself, that's extra. And if you feed me incorrect intelligence, then my price _doubles_."

"Can you start in a week?" Beck asked with a pleased smile.

"Why wait that long?" Castle replied, something dangerous in his eyes.

**xXx**

"You guys will never believe the news I have today!" Tandy said, grinning madly, as Peter and Mary Jane got out of the car parked in the driveway of the palatial Bowen estate.

"What's that?" Mary Jane asked.

"I got us a gig playing at the Royale," Tandy said, eyes flashing with glee.

"The _Royale_?" Peter clarified. "_The_ Royale?"

"Two hundred bucks apiece for this gig," Tandy confirmed. "Come on in."

They followed her through the side door, into the garage. The card table was set up, and Tyrone sat leaning on it and grinning. Peter, Mary Jane, and Tandy joined him at the table.

"The time has come to talk about the future," Tandy said seriously. "Tyrone and I have been thinking this over. At this point, we've made enough local contacts that if we want we can go semi-pro, get an album out there, and take a shot at the big time. Do this for a career. We have the talent, the fan base is already out there." She leaned back. "Eyes Open could go all the way. I believe it."

"I d-dd-drive somebody e-eelse's car for a l-l-lliving," Tyrone managed. "S-ss-sign me up for th-the b-bband," he clarified. "Ll-llets d-d-do this."

"Yeah, my career? Isn't," Mary Jane agreed. "I'm in."

"I've had second thoughts about working with Strange," Tandy admitted. "I mean, it's been very educational being his personal assistant, and I've seen some things," she said, shaking her head, "that I never would have believed. But this is a chance to do something else. Something special. I really think we can make it, reach millions of people with this music we're making. What do you think, Peter?"

He sat back from the table, watching them, expressionless.

"Peter?" Mary Jane prodded.

He leaned forward, rubbed at his face. "I just got a job opportunity," he said. "A big one. Chief photographer for a magazine. Plus freelancing for the Planetary." He shook his head. "This is money and career and… stability… that I just don't feel I can walk away from. I don't see how I can do that, and also tour and put in studio time."

Peter didn't look at Tyrone, who was crestfallen. As Tyrone slumped in his chair, Mary Jane touched Peter's arm.

"You haven't started work, or signed anything yet. It isn't too late to change your mind," she said.

Tandy saw Peter's frown, and she interjected. "Maybe we could do an album, and keep up our presence in New York. Keep our options open, so if we did decide to go for it later, we would still be positioned. In the meantime, work on our repertoire."

"Yeah, g-ggreat, whatever," Tyrone muttered, looking away.

"Sounds fine," Peter said, eyes glittering.

Tandy regarded him for a long moment, and she nodded to herself.

"Whatever," Tyrone repeated heatedly, standing and walking away from the table, picking up his guitar. "This g-gg-group-p is d-dynamite," he said. "It's n-not like I could-d m-mm-make it goin solo," he added. "I guess I just hafta _wait. _Till we a-all _ready._"

"I _so_ hear you there," Mary Jane agreed as she crossed the garage and slung her base guitar on. She plugged it in, checked the amps. "We gonna make some music, or what?"

**xXx**

Mary Jane steered as the car whisked along the arterial freeway. Beside her in the car, Peter gazed out the window, more or less absent.

"You're too quiet," Peter murmured. "Out with it."

"I really want this band thing to work out," Mary Jane said earnestly. "We could hit the big time. With you and Tandy, we have something really unique and special. Tyrone and I get our names in the lights too, and that doesn't hurt. I could be a part of this great thing. But alone? Yeah, Tyrone and I know that you and Tandy are the band. And we're along to fill out the edges. Not that this is a bad thing. But that means unless you two are both on board, we're gonna flop."

"I may never again get a chance like the one I've got right now," Peter said. "This job could be the perfect use of my talents in the real world, in real life. And the band… entertainment is pretty fickle. I just don't want to go bust and wonder 'what if.' You know?"

"I do," Mary Jane nodded. "And you haven't even interviewed with this Elgin guy. What if it goes sour? We have a chance here with the band. A chance that might slip away. There is no telling what might happen if we let this time get away from us. Maybe the band will fall apart. I don't know. I want to get it going while the getting is good." She glanced over at him. "I'm surprised at you. I'd think you would jump at the chance to get Tandy and Tyrone out of Strange's little clique."

"No," Peter sighed. "I'm not mad at Strange, I wish him the best. Really. But I owe him bigtime." Peter shook his head. "I hate that," he murmured reflectively, as though surprised to hear what those words sounded like out loud.

Mary Jane turned onto the street where they lived. Peter shifted, and looked over at her intently.

"Mary Jane," he said, "it's time for the spider ghost to go away."

"What?"

Peter shrugged, then looked out the windshield. "I'm not going out exercising anymore in the mesh. No more heroics. It's time I paid attention to my life. What I'm doing with it, where I'm going with it. It's time for Peter Parker to be more important. For the opportunities of my real life to be more important than saving the world."

Mary Jane said nothing. But she could almost _feel_ the memory of Aunt May in the car with them, chilling and disapproving.

They pulled up to the curb, Mary Jane neatly parallel parking. Peter bounded up to the door, unlocked it, let himself in. Mary Jane followed him through the building, around and up to their apartment. He moved with energy and purpose. She drifted into the kitchen, shrugging her jacket off. Glancing around.

In the study, she heard the closet opened. A 'tunk' of plastic; the child-sized mannequin bopped against the doorframe as Peter pulled it out. She heard the delicate rip of mesh being stripped off the dummy. The empty rattle of spray cans. She heard Peter fumble with a cardboard box, dumping things in.

Mary Jane opened the fridge, pulled out a loaf of bread. Got the peanut butter out. She noticed her hands were trembling. She smeared peanut butter on a slice of bread as Peter walked past her to the door, hefting the child mannequin and a cardboard box with black spraypaint and extra suits of mesh. He opened the door easily without any help, and vanished into the hallway. She heard his light tread moving down the stairs.

Unable to help herself, she walked over to the window and peered out. Watched Peter go outside, haul the dumpster lid up, stuff the mannequin and box in. He brushed off his hands, and returned to the building without looking back once.

Mary Jane sat on the couch, vision blurring. She turned on the television.

"I'm not gonna cry," she managed in a thick voice. And she put her hand over her mouth as she flicked through the channels senselessly. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes in spite of her best efforts.

When Peter returned, walking behind the couch headed for the bedroom, he pretended not to notice.

**Wednesday, September 22 2004**

"Glad you could meet me for lunch, Peter," the older man smiled. He was tall, lean, his white hair styled with curves straight out of the fifties. His eyes were sharp, his grip strong.

"Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Stacy," Peter replied as he sat at the table and glanced around. "Sure beats Lucky's Pizza." He smiled.

Stacy shrugged. "I like to come here once a month or so," he said, gesturing around the Italian restaurant. "Reminds me of times gone by."

"Lunch is on me, no objections," Peter grinned. "I just dropped off my pictures at the Planetary, and I'm in the mood to celebrate."

"Very well, I'll accept your generosity gracefully. As long as you do the same when it's my turn," Stacy said with a quiet smile.

"Done. So what's good here?"

"I've never been disappointed," Stacy shrugged. "Order whatever you like. I hear you have a new job in the offing."

"I do," Peter nodded. "Head photographer for an interior design magazine. It's a sweet deal."

"I can't tell you how happy I am for you, Peter," Stacy nodded. "That's fantastic."

Peter eyed him. "Did you invite me to lunch to talk about my new job?" he asked.

"That's part of it, of course. But I don't have too many friends from the old days, and Gwendy, bless her heart, gets awfully tired of listening to my armchair detecting. I thought maybe you'd be interested in rehashing the gory details of a gangland slaying," he said puckishly.

"Gangland slaying?" Peter echoed.

Stacy nodded. "Last night, the Kallara family. Five of them found pinned to the front of their safehouse, a Chinese laundry. Stuck to the wall with bayonets, if you can believe it. Then the rest of the mob soldiers seemed to be trapped inside when the building caught fire and burned down. The police speculate that the leaders were pinned to the exterior so they could be easily identified." Stacy shook his head. "This is not a normal gang hit," he pointed out.

Peter paused. "I… I don't do that anymore," he said. "I decided it was time I grew up and left the police work to the police." He smiled, trying to take the sting out of his words. "I'm afraid the police are on their own with this one."

"Really," Stacy said, arching an eyebrow as he sat back. "Why the change? If you don't mind my asking."

"Well…" Peter said slowly. "Aunt May is gone, and… and I realized that I have to pay more attention to my life. To being Peter Parker. And you know what? The world doesn't end if I stop trying to save it." He shrugged. "My new job will finally make me financially stable without help from the outside. It's time I stopped messing around with my college hobby."

Stacy saw the server approaching with their lunch order. "Well, it's a loss for the city," he said. Then he shook the feeling off, not looking at Peter. Peter nodded to himself.

Lunch arrived, and they ate together quietly.


	10. Down & Up

**xXx**

Peter walked in and hefted his camera bag up to the counter. He blinked, looking over at Mary Jane. She sat leaning forward on the couch, watching the news.

"What's up?" he asked, walking around to join her.

"Dude, check this out," she said. "Another gang bites the dust! This is just like the Kallara thing yesterday. Two in a row? What kind of army is after the New York underground?" she wondered.

Peter watched the news. A trim, fashionable woman covered her ear with one hand and spoke directly to the camera, and what looked like flaming docks smoked and flickered in the background.

"Tarantelli family found dead tonight. The police were drawn by reports of explosions, and they arrived to find the cargo ship Maggie May, out of Thailand, sinking. Authorities suspect that more victims and a cargo of illegal drugs may be aboard. While there are no suspects at this time,"

Peter sighed, shrugged. "Oh well," he said, heading to the kitchen.

"Hey, do you think it could be another one of those invisible monster things?" Mary Jane asked.

"No," Peter muttered, shaking his head. "Style's all wrong. Probably just some hired out-of-town muscle brought in to shake things up. Not my problem."

"Dude," she said, staring at the television. "Three of the ringleaders were found pinned to a telephone pole, like ten feet off the ground! The Kallara ringleaders were stuck to the wall with knives, weren't they?"

"Bayonets," Peter clarified. "From what I hear."

She regarded him. "So you're really serious about not checking this out?" she said.

"MJ, it's mobsters blowing each other up," Peter sighed. He looked at her, then shook his head. "The spider ghost just developed a new super power. Invisibility." He checked in the fridge for leftovers.

Mary Jane paused, then rose and approached him in the kitchen. He glanced at her, and stuck a bowl of chili in the microwave.

"Peter. If this happens again. The gangland killings, with the leaders strung up. I want you to check it out, okay?"

"Why?" he asked tightly. "What do you want me to do about it? Have you forgotten what happened last year around this time? I got put in jail. I came this close," he said, gesturing, "to getting exposed as Peter Parker, Spider Ghost. I'm done tweaking the law on a lark. No more. And I'm not crazy about giving gangsters a reason to target us, either. What are you thinking? How can you possibly for a second believe it's not stupid for me to involve myself?"

Her stare turned chilly. "I'm a woman, Peter Parker, in case you forgot," she said. "And I don't have to explain everything to you. I want you to go check it out, if this happens again. Yes or no, bub."

"Bub?" Peter echoed. "Definitely too much time around Illyana."

"Will you do it or not?" Mary Jane demanded, temper frayed.

"Fine. I'll go have a look around if another crime family shuffles off this mortal coil and gets their leaders nailed to something. Satisfied?"

"Yeah, I am," she snapped.

"Good. I'm going to bed," he said, and he left the kitchen, headed back down the hall to the bedroom.

The microwave beeped. Mary Jane took Peter's bowl of chili out.

"And thanks for making me a snack," she muttered under her breath. She leaned back against the counter. "I'd explain it to you, Peter," she sighed. "If only I understood it myself."

**xXx**

The door slammed open, and a big man staggered down the steps. Two thugs leveled weapons at him, then relaxed as they recognized Castle.

"Got 'em," Castle grunted, and he sagged down into a chair as blood flowed down his arm. His shirt was torn, his pants tattered, and he was smeared in blood and grease. He leaned his bruised head back in the chair. "I need some god damn stitches," he managed. "No bullets stuck in me, though."

"That's good," Beck said, watching him. "Well done, the light pole was a nice touch." A doctor stepped forward, and started snipping through the tatters of Castle's shirt, cutting the cloth off with scissors. "You've exceeded my expectations, and lived up to those of our employer."

"I'll be healed up in a week or so," Castle murmured, exhausted. "Is there a rush before we tackle the next one?"

"No, nothing that won't fit into your timetable," Beck shrugged. "Do you want something for the pain?"

"No," Castle retorted, his eyes snapping open. "Gotta stay sharp." The doctor pressed his shoulder, and Castle leaned forward. The doctor produced a modified medical staple gun. First he sprayed the injuries, and they bubbled and frothed as the chemicals cleaned them out. Castle winced.

"Just check for broken bones, get me some braces and some stitches, and I'll head out to my own safehouse," Castle grunted.

"Very well," Beck agreed. "I'm glad you made it back."

"Thanks," Castle replied. "I am too."

Beck straightened. "Well, be careful. I'll be in touch."

"Right," Castle nodded. "You do that." And his eyes were somehow feral as he watched Beck leave. As the door closed behind Beck, Castle smiled to himself. "Go talk to your boss."

**xXx**

Beck was escorted into the room lit only by candles, heavy with the unpleasant smell of damp flesh and old food.

"You are late," rumbled Fisk's vast voice.

"I thought I might be followed," Beck said. "Just a feeling. So I took my time and was careful."

"Very well," Fisk muttered. "Good work with Castle on the Kallara and Tarantelli families. Next are the Chan."

"The _Chan_?" Beck clarified, startled. "Who are you sending with him to tackle them?"

"He goes alone," Fisk growled. "Still you underestimate the power of one driven, haunted man with Castle's instincts and skills. To attack is more simple than to defend. Alone and fully equipped, especially with our intelligence, I have every confidence he can accomplish the task."

"How is he going to do it? I mean, the Chan have contacts all over New York."

"True," Fisk nodded. "But next week they will have a gathering to discuss what's going on with the other crime families, to decide how best to protect themselves."

"So that's why you went after the other families first," Beck nodded. "To encourage the Chan to bunch up."

"Castle is perfect," Fisk muttered. "He specializes in massive damage, misdirection, and stealth. He is a privateer, a pirate with a mandate. He would be doing this anyway if we weren't equipping him. A man like that has his own ways of getting the equipment and information he needs. I am simply aiding him."

"And it doesn't hurt that the Chan snapped up the drug trade that was once part of your mighty criminal empire," Beck observed.

"Now, why do you have to go and say something like that?" Ebony asked, startling Beck. Ebony lounged in a dark doorway, and his flat eyes took in every detail of Beck's current state.

Fisk raised one massive, meaty hand. "It's alright, Ebony. True, I am punishing the Chan for dominating a trade that was once all mine. Just as the Kallara and Tarantelli families helped finish off my empire. I am punishing those who descended like sharks after that disaster in Latveria, where I crawled home blinded and crippled. My lieutenants deserted me, entire gangs defected at once, and my will became irrelevant in the turbulent underworld of New York." He paused.

"If Castle is successful," Fisk murmured, "then there is only one more target before he is free to go, his contract fulfilled."

"Free to go," Beck clarified. "Not disappeared, or vanished, or scapegoated, or killed. But free to go. You plan to let him walk away."

"Yes," Fisk nodded, his head a vague pale shape in the dimness of the corner. "It's the least I can do."

Beck shivered slightly, finding the air close and musty. "So who is the last target?"

Fisk smiled inscrutably.

**Thursday, September 23 2004**

Peter adjusted his tie and hefted his portfolio and camera bag. He glanced up and down the street, then he let his eyes drift half closed. Five till ten. Elgin wasn't late yet.

Then the BMW pulled around the corner and growled to a halt. Peter grinned, the trunk popped open on the car. Peter slung his portfolio and camera bag into the immaculate trunk, closed it, then dropped down into the passenger seat.

"Nervous?" Elgin asked, looking trim and dapper in his suit. He wore small round reflective glasses that accentuated the lean strength of his face, and his clothes were well coordinated. His cropped black hair looked stylishly windblown, and his smile was all brilliance.

"Of _course_ I'm nervous," Peter retorted. "We are getting ready to go see the investor that might just make or break this whole project. Aren't _you_ nervous?"  
"No, not really," Elgin shrugged. "I have eight likely investors. This is the first one on the list."

Peter looked at him shrewdly. "You are _such_ a liar. You are twitchy as hell." He grinned, Elgin chuckled.

"Okay, you got me," he said.

"This is strange," Peter said, leaning back as Elgin drove. "I keep thinking of you as 'Beck.' It's going to take me a while to get it straight that you're Elgin now."

Elgin nodded. "Quentin Beck is a part of the past, and Mysterio is in a trunk in my closet, safely packed away as insurance against a time of need."

"The spider ghost retired, too," Peter said, watching the city roll by.

"Really," Elgin murmured, surprised. "I would not have asked you to retire that persona, but… I won't lie to you. I'm glad you did. That will make this job a _lot_ easier for both of us."

"Believe me, I know," Peter nodded. He paused. "What's the battle plan when we get to the investor? Where are we going? What's going on?" He grinned ruefully.

"We're going to set up for our presentation. The investor, Warren Worthington the Third, is going to meet us in his private suite in the Hellfire Club." Elgin tugged a special pass from his pocket.

"The—_the_ Hellfire Club?" Peter said, astonished. "His _private suite?_"

"Did I mention he would be an ideal candidate to fund our effort?" Elgin said mildly. "Worthington has a deeply diversified portfolio, and we'll be targeting the media arm of his conglomerate. The pitch is to help him see how funding our magazine will be cheaper and more effective than some targeted advertising of his properties, if we feature them on a monthly basis. We can create a reputation and identity for the magazine as a reliable guide to fashion; tell rich people what's popular. Because they're dying to know." Elgin smiled.

"Wow," Peter said, awed.

"With your portfolio, I'm convinced that we can make this happen," Elgin nodded. "So be of good cheer, my friend. We're on our way."

"This is really going to work out," Peter mused to himself. Elgin just smiled.

**xXx**

"Yeah, Grace? Sorry, I'm sick today. Can't come in," Mary Jane said dully into the phone. "Yeah, sorry. Okay. Tomorrow, sure. Yeah okay bye." She hung up, and let out a deep sigh. She scrubbed at her weary eyes with her fists, then she headed to the bedroom.

Opening the closet, she stood on a box and reached up to the very top. She pulled down a thin shirt-box, and she opened it. Let her fingers touch the black mesh wadded up inside, looking wrinkled and matte without being stretched over flesh.

She sighed deeply, remembering years ago…

_Peter cleared his throat. "Mary Jane," he said, "my powers are gone."_

_"What?" she said, swerving a bit as her head whipped around to look at him._

_"Eyes on the road," he said, his voice tense. "I woke up this morning a normal average guy."_

_A moment of silence stretched out forever. She blinked. _

_"That's good, right?" she said. "Now nobody has a reason to come after you and screw up your life. You don't have anything to hide. Life further back from the edge, huh?" There was wonder in her voice._

_His eyes filled with unshed tears as he looked at her. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "I can't believe," he said softly, "you know me so little." He bowed his head. "My power caused me trouble, yes. But I always got more than I lost, if you know what I mean. And I was wrong. I'm not a normal average guy. The normal average guy out there," he said, fighting against the bitterness that crept into his voice, "doesn't know what he's missing. Has never done what I have done. I'm not sure I can ever be whole. In me," he said, touching his chest, "there's a scar where my incredible abilities once were."_

_"Then, maybe," she said, "you need to get your powers back." She looked over at him and tried a smile._

Mary Jane let out a deep sigh. "Yeah," she murmured. "I guess people change." She struggled to accept that idea. Then shrugged.

Quickly, Mary Jane stuffed the box and its mesh back up in its concealed nook. She left the bedroom, headed for the phone, dialed a number.

"Gwen? It's MJ. Look, we have an emergency mope situation, we need 10 cc's of shopping, stat! Pick me up? Groovy." She smiled slightly to herself, and headed back to the bedroom to make herself presentable.

**xXx**

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the handsome young billionaire said as he strolled into the plush meeting room. "You have ten minutes." He sat down at the table. He was lithe and quick, his eyes sharp, his burnished gold hair swept back from his classical features.

"Thank you, Mr. Worthington," Elgin nodded. "I'm here to interest you personally in an interior design magazine. Let's forget about the posturing. This is what it will do for you. We feature your properties in at least half the magazine every month. My associate, Peter Parker, is a gifted photographer who can make any space look intriguing. Basically, your investment is seed money and additional operating expenses. And we provide you with unparalleled advertising. The rest of the issue is dedicated to material that will get people interested enough to purchase the magazine to see _your_ products and services inside."

"Any space intriguing," Worthington echoed, a smile toying with his lips. "Let's see the portfolio, Parker." Peter handed it to him.

Worthington paged through the photographs; one from above a subway train, another level with the floor capturing shoes and shadows, a stunning aerial shot straight down the side of a skyscraper, a nest in an air conditioning unit… Worthington flicked through the collection.

"You just closed a deal on some properties on the West Side," Elgin continued. "We could make that one of our first projects. We plan to have contests with redecorating similar spaces, and we could do that in some of the standardized housing you control. There are a lot of ways our interests dovetail here."

Worthington snapped the portfolio shut and regarded Peter. "Interesting," he said. "He does have a gift for photography. And if something were to happen to him? What of my investment then?"

"I have eight more photographers lined up," Elgin shrugged.

Worthington considered him for a moment, then he nodded. "Very well. I'll have my Omnicorp people be in touch with you." He smiled briefly, then stood and left without further pleasantry.

"Did—did we just—?" Peter said.

"We did," Elgin replied, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Eight more, you say?" Peter said as he cocked an eyebrow.

Elgin shrugged, a catty smile on his lips. "I lied to you about investors, seemed only fair to lie to him about photographers. Let's go get a drink."

"Amen to that," Peter grinned. "I think drinks are on you."

"Fair enough," Elgin chuckled. "To _Interiosity_!"

"I'll drink to that," Peter agreed. "I'll drink to that."


	11. Moving

**Wednesday, September 29 2004**

The pudgy Asian sipped air through his cigarette, and the tip glowed bright red. He tapped ash off, and glanced down the fire escape to the alley far below.

Sighing, he took another drag on the cigarette, then he settled himself on the folding chair set out on the metal grating outside the apartment. He didn't see it coming.

A shadow crossed him briefly, then a big man swooped down, landed with a dull clack on the fire escape, and jammed a knife through the man's throat. Tugging it clear, the big man muscled the fat Asian down in the chair as he jiggled with death throes. Then he propped him back against the wall and wiped off his blade.

Castle eased the window open, glanced inside. Three men watching the game on television, one having a spirited conversation in what sounded like Chinese on his cell phone, and a flush from the bathroom. Castle nodded to himself, sheathing his knife and drawing two silenced pistols.

Fluid and swift, he tumbled into the room and popped up shooting; muffled paffs were startlingly loud, but they were drowned out by cheers as a football team made a touchdown.

The three on the couch were bowled over by mule-kick bullet impacts, two shot in the head and one in the throat. The man on the cell phone spun, snatching at his pistol, but two bullets took him through the chest. Then the door to the bathroom opened as Castle pivoted and squeezed off a handful of rounds down the hall. The mob soldier was knocked off his feet, sent sprawling backward to smack into the wall and topple.

Castle glanced at the wisping guns; six bullets spent on the right, four on the left. He nodded to himself, and he approached the bedroom door.

Inside, the bed was rocking and the springs creaking. Grunting and moaning drifted out through the thick door. Castle frowned, then shouldered the door open.

A strong young man was flexing rhythmically into a woman who had her legs wrapped around him. His back had a sprawling and colorful dragon tattoo. Castle lined up and fired three shots into the young man, knocking him forward, blowing his head open.

The woman didn't scream, but she did gasp and manage to free herself from the corpse. She staggered out of the bed, naked, eyes wide.

"You can walk away," Castle said softly. She stared at him, trembling, then dove for the pistol on the nightstand.

A bullet smacked through her head, and she rebounded from the wall and slid stupidly to the floor, the gun clattering down off the nightstand.

Castle let go a deep breath, then stepped backwards, turned. He vanished into the city, and the television played on behind him.

**xXx**

The tape dispenser croaked as Peter dragged it across the top of the moving box, sealing it shut. Mary Jane strolled in, half a smile on her face.

"Hey, tiger," she said. "How's the packing going?"

"I got it all sorted, by category and by urgency level, then prioritized and arranged against the wall there," he said pointing to a preternaturally organized phalanx of boxes. "The bins for the stuff we're using until we actually move are arranged there," he said, pointing, "and the furniture has all been prepped for moving to the vans."

She crossed the room and pulled him into her arms, kissing him. "I love a man who can move me," she said with a grin.

"Did you put your two weeks' notice in today?" he asked.

"You bet your sweet tight fanny I did," she nodded.

"Groovy," he said with what could best be described as a smirk. "Hey, Elgin got us a sweet deal on an apartment in Manhattan. It's as big as this apartment and Aunt May's house put together, with change to spare."

"Peter," Mary Jane said, blinking and leaning back in his arms. "That must cost a _fortune._"

"Mary Jane," he retorted with a peculiar curious smile, "I'm going to be _making_ a fortune. And we're getting a first-rate discount because the place is owned by our magazine's backer. Let's hear it for perks."

"So when do I get to see this place?" Mary Jane asked.

"Get your bag, let's roll," Peter replied.

**xXx**

The handsome young Asian man had his sleek black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He strolled into the restroom, his motion all grace, and a burst of chatter from the dining area followed him in. He lined up with the urinal, unzipping.

He didn't hear it coming.

The sledgehammer smacked into the back of his head, driving it forward to pound into the motion sensor mounted over the urinal. He didn't have a chance to let out more than a strangled cry; a hard hand snatched his shoulder and flung him to the floor. Then a two handed drive brought the hammer down on his face, and it was done.

Castle tossed the sledgehammer aside with a clatter and knelt by the door to the restroom. He jammed a sticky wad of gray putty by the door, stuck a pin in it that was attached to a wire. Taped the wire across the way from the wad. Then he primed the electric pin, and he swiftly crossed the room and hopped up, squirming his bulk out the window and dropping outside.

The door opened as two trim young men came to check on their boss. They had just enough time to see the body before the explosion tore the doorway apart and shredded them.

The rest of the group, seated at their customary table, looked up in startlement as the wall exploded and flung splinters and gravel through the room. Chattering in Chinese, they snatched up their personal effects and ran for the door, crossing the street in a hurry.

Slinging down into their cars, they ordered their drivers to get out of the area. Only then did they notice the glassy stares, the thin rivulets of blood. The drivers sagged down to the side, but their passengers didn't manage to get the doors open fast enough—

Three cars hopped up into the air, riding balls of flame, as their explosions burst every window in a block radius.

Castle tossed the detonating switch behind a dumpster and turned away. Then, he was gone.

**xXx**

Mary Jane's face was slack with awe as she gazed around the foyer. "Wow," she said simply. She touched a decorative column gingerly, then stepped into the main living room. "This is real hardwood floor."

"That's nothing," Peter grinned. "Come check this out." He took her hand and led her past the full kitchen to the enclosed balcony. She stared out over the long channel of Central Park.

"How about that?" Peter asked proudly.

"I can't believe we can afford a place like this," she said.

"We can," Peter nodded. "Did you see the marble countertop in the kitchen?"

She followed him, taking it all in. Turning, she saw that the living room had a balcony loft area. "What's up there?" she asked.

"Our room," he replied, taking her in his arms. "And a guest room, in case we have visitors. Things are finally looking up," he said with a crooked grin. "It's time to leave the past behind, and look to the future." He kissed her on the cheek, then turned and headed for the phone.

Mary Jane wandered over to the balcony, taking in the stunning view as she heard Peter call the movers. She smiled quietly to herself.

"Maybe he's right," she said to no one in particular.

**xXx**

Tempers flared and the argument spiraled into shouting in the plush hotel conference room. Castle briefly wished he knew Chinese. But he had a pretty good idea what they were talking about. His muscles flexed in the dim light of the glow rod as he finished attaching the canister to the air conditioning system. Then he wormed back out of the narrow crawlspace and clambered up to the access that led to the roof.

Stepping over the dead guards he had piled in the maintenance accessway, he picked up his heavy bag and unzipped it. He slid into the kevlar vest, pulled on the gas mask, the infra-red goggles. Then he holstered two pistols and picked up the assault rifle.

Opening the door, he padded down the hallway and stood with his back to the wall, around the corner from the entrance to the conference room. He took a deep breath, then he triggered the teargas.

As the vents spewed chemical fog in the meeting room, shouts of rage and fear erupted. The guards spun to see what was going on inside, and Castle slung around the corner shooting.

Powerful concussive thudding recoil pushed at his mighty arms as he swept the roaring gun, and the four guards were flung back and chopped to gobbets. Castle triggered the grenade launcher; with a hollow 'phoot' it flung a grenade at the doorway as the first wave of bodyguards rushed out.

The explosion sprayed soot and mortal remains all over the hall, and Castle was sprinting into the fray, his heart thudding, adrenaline fueling his predatory rush. Snapping on infrared, he ducked into the conference room that was too murky with teargas to be navigable. He saw heat signatures, and he punctured them with bullets. He lost count of the enemy as his gun bucked and roared.

Someone finally reached the balcony access, flinging the door open. The carefully placed claymore mines fired, and with gurgling chokes an entire line of escaping criminals was pulverized by the ensuing blast.

Castle looked around, taking in the scene. No survivors… Well, he had best be sure. He pulled a satchel that hung from his back, and tossed it in the middle of the room. Then he turned and ran, out of the room, down the hall, he ducked into the stairwell, and pushed the trigger.

The room detonated, spraying debris out to flutter and sink through the air, clattering down around the police cars that screeched to a halt in front of the hotel.

In the stairwell, Castle shed the flak vest and gear. Underneath, he wore a janitor's outfit. Scooping his rifle and mask and goggles and pistols together, he jogged down the stairs and ducked out, hunting for a closet with cleaning supplies. He found one, dumped his gear in a trash can, and wheeled it out. He tugged a baseball cap low over his forehead, and looked down as he headed for the service elevator.

Several stories above, ammunition was still cooking off as flames flickered around the dead.

**xXx**

Dusk was settling in as Mary Jane drove behind the loaded moving truck. Peter watched the city as it shifted from dusk to the flicker and buzz of artificial light.

The song wrapped up on the radio, and the dj chattered about something or other. Then, an advisory.

"This just in. The Hamilton Arms hotel was just attacked. In what appears to be the final blow in a killing spree that has gone on all day, unknown parties assaulted the Chan family's private suite. Casualties are unknown at this point, though preliminary investigations suggest—"

Peter shut the radio off, and Mary Jane glanced at him.

"You promised."

Peter frowned. "I don't want to bring the spider ghost with us to the new place, MJ. I'm trying to put the past behind us."

She said nothing.

He heaved a deep sigh. "Fine. I'll go check it out. After we unload the boxes." He looked over at her. "I wish I understood why you have a problem with me hanging up the mesh."

"So do I," she sighed. "So do I."

**xXx**

Peter strolled down the alley, past the police tape, and he leaned against the corner of the restaurant. Across the street, black smears still showed where the cars had exploded. Peter glanced around, his senses sweeping the area.

Something. He focused, ferreting through the vast data his senses collected, testing the strands of his net of senses to find which one vibrated with a catch. Ah. Scent.

He smelled the faint odor of high explosives. Squinting, he tried to narrow it down. He shifted the dumpster aside effortlessly, reached behind it, picked up a trigger-like device.

Recognized it.

"Hey," he said. He looked around the corner at the exploded cars. "Bingo. Now all I need is a weapons expert." He smiled to himself, pulled his ultra-thin cell phone out of his pocket. Dialed a number. "Hey, Natasha," he said. "Got a minute?"

**xXx**

Natasha sipped her coffee as she leaned on the table between herself and Peter. He glanced around.

"Nice place," he said.

"It's down the street from my dance studio," she shrugged. "What do you want to talk about?"

"This," he said, putting the detonator on the table and sliding it to her. She picked it up, looked it over.

"I know this device," she said. "It is companion to one or more satchel charges. It's a specialized car-bomb style demolition kit developed by Fisk's company."  
"Wilson Fisk?" Peter said, surprised. "Who might be able to get their hands on something like this?"

"He was prohibited from marketing it widely, of course," Natasha said with something of a smile. "When his company was bought out, his assets would have been split. I have no idea where this could have come from."

"Do you know where Fisk is now?" Peter asked.

Natasha looked him in the eye. "No, I don't," she said. "He dropped out of sight some time ago. In more ways than one. I hear he's blind now."

"Really," Peter nodded sagely. "How about that. Well… thanks for your help. The coffee is on me." He smiled at her, left a bill on the table, and rose to leave.

"Watch your back, Parker," Natasha said. "Fisk is the wrong man to toy with."

"Don't I know it," he muttered under his breath as he left.

**xXx**

"What am I doing?" Peter asked himself as he stood on the front porch, waiting, the tone of the doorbell echoing in the house. He jammed his hands in his pockets, looking over the street. A shadow moved behind the door, and it opened.

"Peter, what a pleasant surprise," Mr. Stacy said with a broad smile.

"Hey," Peter said. "Mind if I come in for a minute? I need to talk to an armchair detective." He grinned sheepishly.

"By all means," Stacy nodded, ushering him in. "Gwen is out with Tandy right now, but I'm all yours. Shall we retire to my den?"

"Sure," Peter said, following the older man. As Stacy settled behind his desk, Peter perched in a chair.

"It's like this," Peter said. "I'm trying to figure out where Fisk might have gone. Is he still alive? Still in New York?"

"Fisk, eh," Stacy echoed. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead," Peter shrugged.

Stacy thoughtfully packed his pipe. "Let's see. Last I heard of Fisk was in the papers, oh, sometime around June if I remember right. He was retiring, he sold the company and it was dissected. I don't know where he is now."

"Can you find out?" Peter asked. "That's what I am here to ask for."

"I'll help as best I can," Stacy agreed. "Come back in about twenty four hours, we'll see what a day of digging can turn up." He paused. "What's the interest?"

"Mary Jane wanted me to check out the gangland hits that have been going on. And I'm beginning to think that Fisk might be working behind the scenes here."

"Mary Jane?" Stacy asked, surprised. "I didn't know she followed crime stories."

"I'd explain," Peter sighed, "but she's a woman, and I'm totally lost on this one."

"Fair enough," Stacy grinned.


	12. Deflected

**xXx**

Castle tilted the cold bottle of water, drinking from it. A doctor hovered at his side, swabbing a cut on his muscled arm.

"Good work," Beck nodded. "By our count, you got fourteen of the Chan bosses and at least forty of their soldiers. That should put them out of commission. Your suitcase is ready whenever you want to take it," he added, patting the fat case at his side.

"The deal was four contracts," Castle said, looking at Beck. "Who is the fourth. I want to get this over with."

"Fair enough," Beck shrugged. "The fourth target is a retired crime lord. He's in hiding in New York, but I have the specs of his retreat here." He tossed an envelope on the table. "His name is Wilson Fisk. Perhaps you've heard of him."

"Yeah, I heard of him," Castle said. "He retired? He was on top of his game when I was put away."

"He was blinded," Beck said. "His empire was taken apart. He is the last big piece of the puzzle you've been dismantling for us."

Castle nodded. "Tomorrow night," he said. "I'll finish this up tomorrow night. Then I'm a free man," he clarified.

"Then you're all done," Beck agreed. Castle watched him for a moment. "What," Beck asked.

"Nothing," Castle shrugged. "Nevermind."

**xXx**

"I hope you're happy," Peter said as he sat on the couch.

Mary Jane looked up from her unpacking as she was pulling paper-wrapped glassware out of the box. "Of course you do, as my husband it's your job." She smiled.

"I think Fisk is behind this. I really don't want to tangle with him again." Peter's eyes were serious.

Mary Jane watched him for a moment. "Peter," she said, "I just wanted you to check it out. You did. If you want to walk away, fine. Do it." She stood, picked up the box, and walked into the kitchen.

Peter sat alone for a few minutes. Then he stood and walked over to the enclosed balcony, looking out over the glittering city, and he sighed.

**Thursday, September 30 2004**

"We aren't unpacked or anything," Mary Jane said, "But you gotta see this place."

The afternoon sun was slanting low and brilliant through the balcony glass as Mary Jane led Gwen and Mr. Stacy down the steps between the foyer and the spacious living room.

"Let me take your coats," Peter said, and he hung the coats in the closet.

"Wow," Gwen managed. "This place is incredible!"

"You've got quite a home," Mr. Stacy agreed.

"And because cooking is difficult under these circumstances," Mary Jane grinned, "I've got some Chinese take out set up in the kitchen. You gotta see the kitchen!"  
"Peter," Mr. Stacy said. Peter hesitated, letting Gwen and Mary Jane head into the kitchen. Stacy pulled a fat envelope from his suit's coat pocket. "Here. This is a list of properties in New York that are still under Fisk's direct control. I separated out the ones that are real estate, and the ones that are business." He hesitated. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Peter said. "Let's get something to eat."

They joined the ladies in the kitchen, where Mary Jane was portioning out the food. "Oh, Peter. Where is the serving dish?"

"Box H9," Peter said. "Should be on the floor in the living room, second tier, fourth in." He grinned, and went to get it.

"There is a man who takes his packing entirely too seriously," Mary Jane sighed, shaking her head.

"This place is pretty cool," Gwen said mischievously. "Are you sure Peter didn't get a job working for the mafia?"

"He's a photographer for an interior design magazine. And they've got some backing. Plus the guy running it knows Peter from his college days. I don't know how this deal got so sweet, but I'm sure Peter isn't doing anything illegal," Mary Jane shrugged. "I better go see how he's coming along with that serving dish." She smiled and excused herself.

Peter was just pulling the dish out of the box. He glanced up as Mary Jane joined him.

"So you got the good Captain and his daughter over here for dinner so he could give you something?" she prompted.

"Yes," he replied.

"And you're going out tonight?" she clarified.

"I guess I probably am," he nodded, slightly evasive.

"If you want some mesh, I saved a suit. It's in my makeup case." She patted the side of his face and smiled, then left him kneeling on the floor looking bewildered.

**xXx**

Peter stood in the shadows of the bedroom as he heard the front door slam. Alone, he lifted the dark strip of mesh, like a flat shadow, and for a moment he felt Peter Pan. "There you are, shadow," he murmured.

He slid into the mesh, and it settled on him like a second skin. He felt his temperature rise, his joints loosen, his muscles relax, his alertness ramp up. He closed his eyes under the mesh, and when he opened them he could see through it, his senses compensated for the thin fabric barrier.

He picked up the envelope with Stacy's information, then he opened the window and slipped out into the night. He pushed the window closed, then hopped at the side of the building.

Holding the envelope adhered to his palm, he let adhesive power swell in his hands and feet as he scrabbled up the wall. Reaching the roof, he sat down, not even winded. He opened the envelope and pulled out the papers.

His eyes scanned sheet after sheet, adding the information to a mass in his mind. He dumped more in, and more, feeling his spider mind sifting and winnowing the data into useful fact.

"There," he murmured, tapping at the paper. "Hefe's Burger Barn." Abandoned restaurant. Centrally located. Good sized. "Or maybe this is just me with an elaborate fat joke," he shrugged. "One way or another, I'm checking it out."

The spider ghost sprang into action.

**xXx**

The fence rattled, and a thug stepped over to glance out the gap between the boards. A rifle butt slammed into his head; he slid down out of the way as a bulky warrior stepped through over his body.

"Don't move," the other thug said, nervous, his trembling gun barrel lined up on Castle.

Castle's hand flicked, and a knife spun through the air in a flat arc and slammed into the thug's throat, knocking him back. Castle spun, leg firing a kick out, and knocked the gun out of the dying thug's hand. Then he turned his attention to the shadow of the restaurant.

He found his way inside, stalking around the shadows of bulky counters and appliances, long since abandoned. It didn't take him long to follow the worn trail in the dust around to the stairs that led to the basement.

Alert for traps, Castle descended the stairs. At the bottom, he found himself in a room awash in candle light. The room stank of untended invalid, and Castle simply stared at the huge bulk of the man that swelled to fill an entire corner of the room.

"I heard you were big," Castle said, "but I had no idea."

"Most people don't," Fisk replied agreeably.

"Just so you know. Your toady, Beck, told me to come here and kill you. I thought I'd check with you first, make sure this wasn't some kind of double-cross."

Fisk paused. "You knew?"

Castle shrugged. "I put a GPS tracker on Beck early on, followed his movements via satellite. Came by on my own to check it out. Remember Jake? Guard on your staff a week or so ago? Yeah, I disappeared him. Found out who they were protecting in here. So when Beck told me to come here and kill you, I thought we should have a chat first."

Fisk sat motionless. "Your loyalty comes as a surprise to me."

"Don't get me wrong," Castle said. "I think you're scum. But I don't want to knock you off and walk into a trap on the way out. If you get my meaning."

"I do," Fisk nodded. "And that is very cautious of you. No need to worry, however. I sent my bodyguard away for the evening, and I can only assume you had no trouble with the thugs upstairs. My time is over, Castle. My empire is dust, my body is crippled, my family… is lost to me. I find myself a man once accustomed to power, with nothing left to live for. In expending my last remaining fortune, I write my own will and testament. And in it, I bequeath myself an escape from the degradation of being at the mercy of my caretakers."

Castle reached back to a satchel strapped to his belt, and he tossed it to land on Fisk's bulk. The big man grunted, and grasped the charge.

"That's an explosive," Castle said. "Make your peace with God. I'm on my way out."

"Goodbye," Fisk said simply.

Castle climbed the stairs and ducked out the back, then he hesitated.

Someone was watching him.

He slowly turned to see a lithe figure made of shadow with two large, pale eyes. The shadow was perched on a fence post, looking right at him.

"Okay," Castle muttered. He took a few steps back.

"Don't run, I'll catch you," the shadow said. "Have a nice chat with Fisk?"

"You could say that," Castle nodded. He thumbed the trigger's button.

The explosion burst up out of the ground, shattering the building. Castle sprawled awkwardly through the air and slammed through the fence, the agile shadow twirled into a backflip and rolled with the blow.

Skidding to a halt on his side, Castle opened up with the machine gun, sending bullets pounding through the doors and windows of parked cars as the shadow darted behind them. Then he rolled to the side, regained his feet somewhat clumsily, and sprinted for the alley.

He paused to catch his breath as his body ached from the force of the explosion. Must have been a lot of other explosives down there somewhere. With a peculiar sound like tearing silk, a dark shape dropped down into the alley from the roof of one of the buildings. Castle lined up with his gun, and a gob of sticky webbing whipped out and smeared over the gun barrel.

"What did I say about playing with guns in the house?" quipped the shadow. Castle scowled as sirens wailed closer.

"What do you think you're here to do?" Castle demanded, his voice hard.

"I think the police might have some questions about why you're setting up your own crematorium. Was Fisk in there?" the dark figure asked, voice light and even, shadows seething around it.

"Fisk paid me to kill him. I used an explosive charge. The world is free of one more scumbag; justice is served. Now get out of my way before you and I have a serious disagreement."

"Justice… justice is _served?_" the shadow echoed.

"What, you think it would have been better to turn him over to the cops? Months in trials, retrials, mistrials? Maybe you don't know that after over a year of legal wrangling he got out of every charge the cops could throw at him, full acquittal. The process was littered with corpses, disappearances, and evidence rendered inadmissible. Justice is to hold him accountable for his crimes, and protect the public from him. I have done that, and I was well paid as a bonus. And I swear to God if you don't get the hell out of my way, you'll be in some major pain." Castle's expression darkened further.

"You are the one that's been killing crime families," the shadow breathed.

"They have been punished for their crimes," Castle growled.

"So what are you going to do now?" the shadow asked, voice trembling with an unidentifiable emotion. "Who's next on your heavily-armed docket?"

Castle regarded the shadow. "I'm taking a vacation," he said softly, his expression shifting slightly. "Somewhere warm."

"I… I can't let you go," the shadow murmured.

"So don't," Castle shrugged. His rifle whipped up, the underslung grenade launcher barked, and the spider ghost sprang out of the way as a concussive blast rippled through the windows of the alley, blowing them out. Castle tugged his mask on, then fired teargas; the shadow scrabbled for the roof, away from the gas. Then four squad cars screamed up to the flaming crater of the restaurant, checked out the alley. Disgusted, the shadow disappeared into the night.

Castle was long gone.

**xXx**

Peter shoved the door open and marched into the living room. He flung a wadded handful of mesh at the trash can as Mary Jane looked up from her book.

"I'm through," Peter said through his teeth. "No more heroing. No more. I'm sorry you miss it, but I'm just done." He spun on his heel and stalked into the kitchen. Mary Jane quickly rose and followed him.

"What happened?" she asked, breathless.

He pulled a cold can out of the fridge and slammed it on the counter, and leaned over it, his back to her. "I don't know what I was doing out there tonight," he murmured. "I let a murder go… because I wasn't sure it was right to stop him. There are too many shades of gray, and I'm going to find myself on the wrong side one of these times. I don't… Forget it." He put his drink back in the fridge unopened, turned, and pushed past her.

"Peter?" she called after him as he jogged up the spiral staircase to the upper level.

"Fisk was killed," he said. Then the door to the bedroom slammed.

Mary Jane blinked, slightly bewildered.

**xXx**

Elgin sighed as he turned the stereo off and capped the candles, snuffing them out. He took a last sip of his brandy, and he padded into the kitchen and rinsed out the glass. Checked the time. After eleven. He smiled to himself.

"There's a lot to do tomorrow," he murmured to himself, and he turned—

"Beck," Ebony said pleasantly. "I've been thinking." The assassin leaned in the doorway to the kitchen. He was dressed all in black, his peculiar dark eyes haunting, his arrogant features crafted in thoughtful amusement. He wore black gloves, and toyed with a knife.

"What are you doing here?" Elgin asked nervelessly, color draining from his face.

"Fisk was all about letting you and Castle go. But me? Well, I'll just come out with it," Ebony shrugged. "You just know too much, Beck. Sorry." He smiled mirthlessly.

Elgin made a break for it. But the conclusion was foregone.

**Friday, October 1 2004**

"Is there anyone who would like to say something?" the preacher with the dull face and the bored eyes asked the small group that assembled in the inexpensive side chapel of the funeral home. Plastic flowers decorated the casket.

"I would," said the trim young man with dark eyes. He stood, and the preacher deferred. "I'm Peter Parker. I knew Simon Elgin as well as anybody, I suppose. He was a private man. I know he wanted to do the right thing, and he was a man who honored his debt. The world is poorer without him. He saw things in a way no one else could. He was a mystery. In his own way, he was a riddle, a riddle that will never be solved." He faltered, and touched at his face. "Thanks." He sat down and took a deep breath. The lovely redhead at his side squeezed his arm.

**xXx**

The graveyard was appropriately dreary and fogged. The funeral was breaking up, and the few that had attended were heading for their expensive chauffeured cars. One of them was a young man with pale hair slicked back from his face, expensively dressed. A man built like a linebacker strode along at his side as they headed for their car.

"Scuse me," said another man as he jogged up to them. "Scuse me, you must be Richard Fisk," he said. He smiled, not out of breath in the least. "I smelled the revenge on you."

"You've got ten seconds to interest me before Alfred here encourages you to leave me alone. I'm in mourning, you insensitive clod." His voice was high and light, but there was a lingering hint of mean in his eyes.

"Your father, Wilson. He was quite a guy," the newcomer said. "My name is Jack Ebony. I've heard good things about your work overseas. I was one of your father's retainers."

"Alfred. Get rid of him," Richard said dismissively, turning away.

He heard a grunt and a crack and a thud, and he turned to see Alfred on his knees, mouth gaping like a landed fish, arm twisted at an impossible angle behind him. Ebony was still smiling unflappably.

"I haven't broken anything too bad yet," Ebony admitted. "But I can. About another ounce of pressure and his tendons just pop all kinds of loose in this here arm. Sorry I didn't hit the ten second limit, but I hope you're interested now."

Indeed, interest glimmered in Richard's eyes. "What do you want."

"Like I said. Your dad was quite a guy. When he knew it was over, he didn't wait around and mope until he was done. Nossir. He took the initiative, whacked the people that screwed him, and then arranged for his own checkout with style. Makes me want to know his son, if you get the picture. I want to work for the winning team. And Fisk? He was good people. You got need for someone of my talents?" He smiled broadly. "I'm the best there is, but what I am _not_ is _cheap._ Course, you don't have money trouble. It's just hard to find good help." He let Alfred go, and the big man thudded down on his elbows, panting into the grass.

"Indeed it is," Richard agreed, a smile hinting in his features. "Walk with me. Tell me more."

They turned and continued walking towards the car, and Alfred dragged himself to his feet and limped after them.

**xXx**

"Touching speech," Worthington said to Peter as they filed out of the chapel. Peter stepped between rows of folding chairs to get out of the way, and he turned to Worthington.

"Thanks," he said calmly. "Do I still have a job?"

"Of course," Worthington nodded. "I was more interested in your photography than his pitch. I'll assign one of my veteran editors to your magazine. You have complete control, he's there to help you. Make this happen. If you can show a demonstrable uptick in my sales and reviews as a result of the magazine, or if it is self-sufficient in a year? Then your position is assured. In one capacity or another."

He turned to Mary Jane. "You must be Peter's wife. I didn't realize you were so lovely." He bowed slightly, took her hand, kissed it. He released her, turned back to Peter.

"For now, you will work out of your home. Get started on the Hawkins Heights apartments, your editor Jameson already has the details." He smiled winningly at Peter.

"Prove me right," he said. "Show me what you've got." He turned, and left.

Peter looked over at Mary Jane, then glanced over his shoulder at the casket.

"I guess the show goes on," he said softly.

They left together.


	13. Part III begins Upward Bound

**PART THREE**

**Tuesday, November 23 2004**

"Well," Peter said, leaning back, "that's it. The first issue, off to the printers." He let out a deep breath, watching his email program, which didn't seem to understand the import of what it had just sent.

"Pastels are ridiculous," barked the man sitting at the desk across the room. He was in his fifties, his hair carved into a flat-top, his face a staring mess of opinion. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing muscled and hairy forearms, and he was dressed in a loosened and rumpled suit from the fifties. His jacket was across the back of his chair and his tie was loose.

He glared at the screen. "I don't know how people can stand to live in those Teletubbies toyhouses, where it looks like color therapy got in a train wreck with anti-depressants and sedatives. Look at this room! What's that new age hippy crap? Look at the arch. It's not an arch. It's _oblique_," he gestured. "Ridiculous."

"Hm," Peter observed, pulling up his most recent batch of photos on the screen.

"Wood!" Jameson nodded curtly. "Wood is what people live in. Since rock, it's been wood. People can't live in day-glo igloos. Me? I have hardwood floors. Exposed rafters. Wood paneling in my den. It's manly! It's human! It's the only medium that's both sophisticated _and_ primitive! Your study is, what, robin's egg blue?"

"Me like sheetrock," Peter said with a small smile. "Me like smooth wall. Like waterfall."

Jameson scowled at him. "Next week, the Barker apartment complex. Sure you don't need help?"

"I do my photo shoots alone, you know that," Peter said.

"I miss the days of setting up a tripod and just taking a shot," Jameson said, walking around behind him and looking over his shoulder at the pictures.

"You probably would rather I use a magnesium flash, too," Peter grinned.

"I mean, how do you get these ridiculous angles?" Jameson said. Peter wondered if he was slightly deaf, if perhaps he couldn't hear how loud he talked. "Looks like you are hanging from the ceiling for that one."

"Will you look at the time!" Peter said, glancing at his watch. "Hey, it's been great. But evening has come, and I gotta get home. I'm in for it as it is. Can you finish up here?"

"Yeah, I'm missing out on meatloaf," Jameson grumbled. "I'm sure I can find some more to do."

"See you tomorrow," Peter grinned, and he scooped up his jacket and headed out the door.

**xXx**

Peter jogged up the spiral staircase to see Mary Jane seated at the desk, regarding her computer. She was draped in a houserobe, her hair up in a tangled bunch of crimson casual finery.

"What's up," he said, approaching and sliding down into a chair.

"Just working on our social calendar. And it's a good thing I'm unemployed, I have time to get a grip on the details," she said with a rueful smile. "How did it go? First issue in the can?"

"You bet," Peter grinned. "Locked and loaded. Tell me all about my social calendar."

"Tomorrow is Wednesday, we've got the bash at Worthington's place. My parents are flying in Friday, and we've got to pick them up and do Thanksgiving dinner. Then Saturday is Harry's Thanksgiving party. We really should go," she said.

"Even if you don't have a _thing_ to wear?" Peter teased.

"Believe me, that's not so much a problem at this point," Mary Jane shrugged.

"Hang on, supper with your family on _Friday?_ I thought that was Saturday. Friday night I have a fundraiser I told Worthington I'd attend."

"Okay," she said, "we'll have the Watson Thanksgiving for lunch on Saturday, and go to Harry's afterwards."

"Great," Peter said, leaning back. He shook his head. "Seems like a lot of work to be thankful."

"We have a lot to be thankful _for_," Mary Jane admonished. "Lots of karma to burn off, grasshopper."

He smiled as she rose and shed the house robe. She wore her sports bra and biker shorts. "I gotta put on my gi, get to class. I'm already too late to get there on time. I'm going to have to call Illyana as it is."

"Um… have a good time," Peter said a little awkwardly. "I'll get some dinner downstairs."

"Okay," Mary Jane called from the bedroom. Peter rose and drifted down the stairs.

Mary Jane shrugged her gi on, and picked up the phone. She called Illyana's cell. "Hey, it's me, Mary Jane. I'm running late. Can you pick me up?"

A second later, an eldritch ring of blazing and dark fire swirled in the bedroom, and Illyana stood next to Mary Jane. They both wore their gi's.

"You know, I think I'm spoiling you," Illyana said severely. "You really should try to make it on time."

"But Illyana," Mary Jane replied with mock startlement, "as a fellow woman, you know we _deserve_ to be spoiled." She grinned.

Illyana rolled her eyes, and the flame coiled up around both of them, leaving the bedroom empty.

They stood in the back corner of the drafty loft. Mary Jane looked over to see Tandy and Tyrone stretching and warming up, and the door banged as Dani trotted into the studio and shrugged her bag off, bowing in.

"Got a minute?" Mary Jane said, suddenly serious as she put her hand on Illyana's arm.

"Sure, what is it?" Illyana asked.

Mary Jane glanced away, biting her lip. "Does Strange know that Peter… well, hung up the playsuit?"

"He does," Illyana nodded, a certain distance in her eyes.

"Right," Mary Jane said, unable to make eye contact. Her hands rubbed each other. "See, it's like this. I'm… I'm worried. Just between you and me," she rushed on. "Don't go telling anybody else about this, okay? Please?"

"Okay, sure," Illyana soothed. "Let's talk in here." She stepped through a door into the small office, a leftover from when the loft had been a warehouse. Illyana sat on a swivel chair, drawing it over to where Mary Jane sat on the bench.

A shadow moved into the doorway, and the ladies turned to see a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair pulled into a severe pony-tail. "What's going on?" she asked curiously.

"Valeria, I'm just talking with Mary Jane for a minute before class," Illyana said. "Go on without us. We'll catch up."

"Good to see you back," Mary Jane said with a smile. "You look really… vibrant! Your trip must have been good for you."

"Believe it," Valeria said with a peculiar expression. "Well… we'll go ahead." She smiled at them and nodded again, then she stepped back and closed the door.

"God I feel stupid," Mary Jane said, rubbing her face. "Like I'm making something out of nothing, seeing problems where they don't exist."

"Well, they're getting ready to do exercises," Illyana said wryly, "so take your time. You can talk to me. Start with an example, maybe."

"Like his camera. You know the one Strange gave him when he was dating Gwen? The one that never gets lost, always finds its way home? Yeah, he has it in a box in the closet. He uses a new digital jobber, and he can go on and on about how much better it is. He's really into digital photography. And he's learning so fast! First issue, and he's already got the ins and outs of the software managed, the principles of layout and design. He's got everything like these threads that all come to his hand, he's tending it and keeping track of everything. Like this magazine…" She trailed off.

"Yes?"

"Like this magazine is his web, he's tending it like a good spider," Mary Jane said, not without bitterness. "It's kind of scary, now that we actually have some money to work with. He got the signing bonus, see, and a month of salary. He's got this financial web set up, he's maximized the relation between his various accounts and investments. It really _is_ spider-like," she murmured, her eyes luminous with wonder at the realization.

She sighed. "This new magazine job is his life. And… and he's been severing his ties. Like this class, dropped. Aunt May is dead. He's trying to distance himself from Strange. I don't know when the last time he talked to Harry is. And he's even getting twitchy about seeing the Stacys."

Mary Jane looked Illyana in the eye. "It's like he's trying to leave the past behind, and start all over. But that scares me, it scares me a lot. Because I am part of that old life. What happens when there isn't room for me anymore?" She hesitated, her thoughts drifting even further. Then she blushed, suddenly self-conscious. "Listen to me go on."

Illyana took Mary Jane's hands. "Hey, you ever need to talk, you can talk to me."

"Only you can't pass any of this on to, you know, Strange or his people," Mary Jane said, concern mirrored in her eyes. "Peter would _not_ be amused."

"I won't," Illyana reassured her. "But I'll do what I can to help."

"No, don't do anything," Mary Jane said, uncomfortable. "I have this feeling. That Peter would… take it poorly."

Illyana watched her narrowly for a moment. "Sure you want me to stay out of it?"

"Positive," Mary Jane said.

"Alright," Illyana sighed. "But I will be seeing him Saturday. You are going to Harry's bash, right?"

"Right," Mary Jane nodded. "How do you know Harry again?"

"Through you guys. And that little incident with the Darkstone," Illyana said. "Strange was invited, he's sending me. I'm thinking about checking out cute guys and trying out expensive drinks." She grinned mischievously. Mary Jane couldn't help but chuckle.

Illyana rose, sensing Mary Jane was through. "Well, you know you don't have to participate tonight if you don't want to."

"What, are you kidding me?" Mary Jane grinned. "This class helps me stay sane. I need something to _hit_."

"You go, girl," Illyana laughed, and she pulled Mary Jane into a quick hug. Then they turned, and left the office, headed for the rest of the hapless, unsuspecting class.

**xXx**

"Honey, I'm home," Mary Jane called out into the cavernous apartment as she strolled in the front door. She peeked around, then headed for Peter's home office as she shrugged out of her coat.

A desk lamp next to the flat panel monitor was the only light in the room; Peter's features were washed out and highlighted at the same time by the twin lights. His gaze flickered around the screen, his face was absently set. One hand drifted seemingly independently on the mouse as he color-shifted a photograph on the screen.

"Peter," Mary Jane clarified. "I'm home."

"Hi," he said.

"So… how did your evening go?" she asked.

"Good." His eyes were absorbed, she was talking to his echo.

"Valeria is back," Mary Jane said stubbornly, leaning on the doorframe. His head tilted towards her, he glanced over.

"Did she have a good trip? How's she doing?" he asked.

"Good, she's doing great. I got to spar with Illyana tonight. I actually knocked her down, how about that!"

"Cool," Peter nodded, eyes straying back to the monitor.

Mary Jane stood quietly, but the silence did not gather weight between them. She realized Peter wasn't really home. And a deep chill slid through the marrow of her bones as she realized she was really watching the spider ghost at work, with a whole new mask that looked a lot like Peter Parker.

Silently, she stepped back away from the door, and headed up the spiral staircase to the second floor and the bedroom. She quickly stripped down, and climbed into the vast, soft bed.

She couldn't get warm.

**Wednesday, November 24 2004**

"Now see, _this_ is what I'm talking about," Jameson confided in Peter as they crossed the threshold between the lavish foyer and the breathtaking ballroom. "Wood!" The floor was marble, but paneled and patterned wood swept and swirled up away from the ground, and the three story open space was dominated by a vast chandelier that flickered with light, reflected from mirrors set in patterns in the wall, so the whole room danced with candle light.

"Welcome to the Hellfire Club," Mary Jane murmured, overawed as she held on to Peter's arm and they joined the rest of the gathering. They stepped forward into the crowd of elegant formal wear, blending in more than Mary Jane would have guessed was possible. Of course, Jameson drew attention away from them, and that didn't hurt.

"Parker! Take a picture of me and my wife," Jameson barked, backing up to a wall. A dumpy, plump, genial enough woman was on his arm. She smiled nervously, creating an effect something like a muskrat's death grin. Peter snapped the shot anyway, and Jameson nodded curtly. He turned to his wife. "We have people to meet and greet," he said. And he led the charge onto the dance floor.

Peter turned to Mary Jane. "I wonder if he'll even notice the Seccubus carving in the panel they were standing in front of," he wondered aloud, and she blinked innocently.

"Peter Parker?" said a voice by Peter's elbow. He turned to see a gangly young man in his early twenties, ill fitted for his tuxedo, freckled and decked out with curly hair. "Are you Peter Parker?" the young man asked again.

"I am," Peter smiled. "You are…?"

"Olson, Jimmy Olson. I work for the Daily Planet. More journalism photography instead of art, but I gotta tell you, I really admire your work," Jimmy said, shaking Peter's hand vigorously. "You've been with the Planetary for a couple years now, right? I got a subscription after that issue, 'Things That Eat People.' That was wicked cool, man, especially those subway shots."

Peter's smile was genuine. "Why thank you, Jimmy. I remember your work now. You had that expose on graft in the police commissioner's office, right?"

"Yeah, that was me. And the feature story on the aftermath of Fisk's criminal empire."

"That's some dangerous stuff to cover," Peter observed.

"Well," Jimmy grinned, "I just find a fearless reporter and tag along, you know?"

"Tell you what," Peter said, "here's my card. Go ahead and get in touch with me if you ever start thinking about experimenting with some different kinds of photography. I can help you get some freelance work. You've got a good eye and solid nerves."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Parker. I'll remember that." His whole face was a smile.

Then a shapely brunette emerged from the crowd at his side. "Where have you been, Jimmy," she said in a low voice. Her face was attractive, but her beauty flowed from her energy rather than her features. She was wrapped in a gown that suggested at every shape of her athletic build, and her dark sweep of hair was simply done up. Her eyes flashed with will and intelligence. "Don't make me leash you."

"Ah, Mr. Parker, allow me to introduce Lois Lane."

Peter smiled at her. "I read your work. Very insightful. Oh, this is my wife, Mary Jane." He turned to her, and blinked. She was gone.

"Well, I'm sure she'll turn up," Lois said blithely. "Come on, Jimmy," she said to him in a low voice. "Richard Fisk is here. Let's get some shots! And don't run off."

"Pleasure meeting you!" Jimmy grinned, and then Lois dragged him into the crowd.

"Okay, great," Peter muttered under his breath. "Now where the hell is my wife?" he mused as his senses unreeled into the crowd.


	14. Make It Special

**xXx**

Mary Jane sighed as she reached the bar built into the side of the ballroom. She swept up a long-stemmed glass and drained it in one gulp, then delicately placed it on the bar. She turned to regard the milling guests, and she found herself face to face with Worthington. He was tall, immaculate in his suit, his golden hair combed back and almost glowing in the candle light. He looked angelic, classically handsome, and ever so slightly cruel.

"Hello," she said, startled.

"Mrs. Parker," he bowed slightly, taking her hand and kissing it. "I'm so glad you were able to join Peter tonight. I have a lot to be thankful for, and it's good to have a chance to celebrate that."

She felt a blush rising as he regarded her and didn't bother hiding his attraction.

"I'm very pleased with your husband's work," Worthington said as he took a glass of wine from the bar. "He has a real eye for composition, a gift for the artistry of the task. I am lucky to have him working for me. I believe this magazine will go a long way towards making Peter wealthy. But having you makes him rich." Worthington smiled, his teeth even and pearly.

"You are kind," she said with a smile, and she ducked her head, pushing stray hair behind her ear as she glanced sideways. "Please excuse me, I need to go freshen up." She smiled disarmingly, and slipped away into the crowd. Smiling, Worthington watched her go.

Mary Jane followed the wall until she found a corridor. The hallway had wide gutters along the sides, filled with soil, and tall plants lined the walkway. She quickly found the women's room, and pushed the heavy wood door open.

The conversation quieted as she stepped into the palatial room, one wall a vast mirror with sinks almost invisibly jutting from it, slim and metal. The lighting was gaslight. There was a lounge, as well as stalls, and two uniformed attendants stood at attention waiting the convenience of their patrons.

Mary Jane felt somewhat dreary and ordinary as she walked past the glittering line of women touching up their makeup. They shot appraisals at her that were as cutting as darts, and they exchanged long-lashed glances that were supposed to conceal their pity, but they were simply trying to outdo each other for demonstrating restraint in the face of a laughable specimen.

Mary Jane stood in front of the mirror, and for a horrible, long moment she saw her self as they saw her. Her straight, plain hair just done up in a bun, nothing elaborate. Her nails, not professionally done. Her dress, merely formal. And in that long, long moment she couldn't see her beauty, just the ways she hadn't packaged it properly.

She didn't have the stomach to touch up her makeup. Turning, she headed for a stall. She closed the door behind herself, lowered the uppermost lid on the toilet, and sat on it, feeling oddly bewildered and surreal.

"So is Jeff still in the Alps?" one of the ladies inquired of another, out at the mirror.

"No, he's moved on to Cambodia. I told him to go without me this time. He thinks he's getting away with something, but you remember Bob?"

"You didn't," the other said, delighted and horrified.

"Well, let's just say what his portfolio lacks, his assets make up for." The grin was audible in her voice.

"That's just wicked," giggled the other woman. "Say, how is your new nanny working out? I'm thinking about letting mine go."

"She's alright," the woman sniffed. "She watches too much television, but good help is hard to find. Are you going to Paris for Christmas? We're thinking about it, we might rent an entire hotel if we can get enough people together to fill it. Like we did for New Years in Cayman last year."

"Oh, that was fabulous!" she squeaked. "I say, let's do get together enough people and make it happen. You can bring Bob," she added slyly, "and I can see for myself what you've got to work with."

"Believe me, there's enough of him to go around." Her voice was deeply self-satisfied.

Mary Jane stared at the tiny diamond in her thin wedding ring. It was good enough for her. But she realized that it might not be long before Peter required something flashier. Somehow the idea hit her as nothing else had, and she clenched her fist, gripped her ring, and shuddered with the first sob. She tried to keep it silent, as the hot tears just oozed out of her eyes. Alone, deeply alone, she hunched in the bathroom stall and just let it go.

**xXx**

Mary Jane glanced at the clock over the television as she heard the foyer door open. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, gripping a big mug of hot chocolate, looking at the television without really paying attention. Only eleven o'clock.

"Mary Jane?" Peter said, his voice tight with worry as he stepped into the living room.

"I'm here," she replied.

He let out a breath, and then scowled. "You left me at the Hellfire Club," he said. "You took off and didn't say goodbye. Why."

She rubbed at her puffy eyes. "I'm not sure I can explain it so you'll understand," she admitted. "I… I'm out of my depth with those people, Peter. I gotta admit. I'm having some trouble adjusting to our new lifestyle."

"You're beautiful, you put those peacocks to shame," Peter said as he walked in. "What happened to my Mary Jane with the bulletproof ego?" He tried on a smile.

"Hey, who we are is changing pretty fast from who we used to be," she said, looking up at him steadily. "Peter… this isn't… Do you like your new life?"

Peter perched in the overstuffed chair opposite Mary Jane. "Yes," he said firmly. "Considering the old life was hand to mouth, liberally spiced with emergencies varying between life-and-death and financial ruin. I don't miss freelance work, or having my wife doing secretarial work. I have money now, and contacts. And I don't risk my life on a lark. And you don't have to stitch me up every time I come home. What's to miss?" he asked with a wry grin.

"Maybe I miss lighting up your eyes when you look at me," she said meekly. She glanced around, struggling away from the vulnerability. "Maybe I miss having something to do besides keep your castle ship shape for business guests." She looked him in the eye. "Maybe I miss my hero, who swept me off my feet."

A chill rippled through his eyes, his features. "Who did you fall in love with, then," he demanded. "Peter Parker? Or maybe just the spider ghost." He rose to his feet.

"I fell in love with Peter Parker," she said, a tremble in her voice. She gazed into his eyes as hers filled with tears. "Is that who I'm talking to?"

Peter's nostrils flared, then he stiffly turned his back on her and stormed into the study, slamming the door behind him.

Mary Jane sniffed, wiped at her face with the sleeve of her houserobe. She took a deep breath. Then she clenched her jaw, and changed the channel on the television.  
The screen flickered and danced, but she didn't see a thing.

**Thursday, November 25 2004. Thanksgiving.**

The delightful wafting aroma of baked ham tempted Mary Jane as she kicked the door shut and hefted the bags of groceries. She hauled them through the doorway, depositing them on the kitchen table. She looked over at Peter, who was lounging against the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, and he wore a bemused smile and a 'Kiss the Chef' apron. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Got tomorrow's supplies, I see," he said.

"Yeah, and are you cooking a ham?" she asked.

His smile turned sheepish. "I felt bad. About last night. And that we aren't having a Thanksgiving on, you know, Thanksgiving. So I got a ham. That's it. Just ham. So lunch is ham. We can have all the stuffing and trimming and stuff like that tomorrow."

She couldn't help but chuckle. "_That's_ the Peter Parker I remember," she said, shaking her head.

"Yeah," he agreed, glancing at the oven. "It's been hard for both of us. I feel like… like I have to make something of myself. Things are moving fast. And everything depends on me doing my best with this magazine job. I really am sorry about yesterday. And you've got the place looking fabulous for your parents. They are going to wonder what we did with their daughter and son-in-law."

"Maybe Peter and Mary Jane got eaten by monsters," Mary Jane suggested mischievously, unpacking the groceries. She picked up the eggs and opened the fridge, then gasped. Peter deftly caught the eggs before they fell to the floor.

Mary Jane reached into the fridge and pulled out the bouquet of two dozen roses. "Peter," she managed. "They're beautiful!"

"Yeah," he agreed, replacing the rack in the refrigerator that he had removed so the roses would fit. "I had to get roses. I have a soft spot for beautiful red-heads." He smiled, leaning over the chilled flowers and kissing his wife.

**xXx**

They sat at the table, the ham between them, and they sliced up the thick slabs of meat. Mary Jane had a glass of wine, Peter had a jug of water. For old times' sake, they were using paper towels for napkins.

"I thought of a lot of stuff last night," Peter said. "Stuff I didn't say. I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah," Mary Jane said. "Yeah, I heard you prowling the place."

Peter looked down at his ham as he cut it into ever-smaller pieces. "I need to get out of the shadow of the mesh," he said. "I can't quite… It distresses me," he sighed. He looked her in the eye. "I need you to know that you're the most important thing in my world. You are more important than saving the world. And it would kill me if I lost you while I was traipsing around in my leotard."

She pushed the ham aside and reached across the table. He took her hand in his, and glanced away with a curt smile. "My little patrols. They always ended in trouble, one way or another. And when I got in trouble, the people around me… well, they take my risks for me. I can't protect everybody. Not when I get into it, up to my eyespots."

He retrieved his hand, picked up the fork, and stabbed at chunks of ham. He quickly downed a forkload, then frankly regarded his wife. "One time I stopped a robbery. The guy involved was into the occult, he figured out I was on to him. So he magically possessed Gwen to try to kill her dad. Then her dad tried to kill her. By the time I was done saving them, Strange had to stop me from murdering them while under the influence." He paused. "I really don't miss that sort of thing."

"Doc Connors might," Mary Jane pointed out. "Remember when he turned into a big gecko? What if you hadn't involved yourself then?"

"I would have had a lot more clothes," Peter said wryly. "I went through a lot of outfits before I figured out how to quickchange into the spider ghost and not tear up my threads. Besides. I don't do that anymore, so now I can carry a cell phone without wondering where I'll leave it next, as I strip to my super hero underoos and swing off to save the day." He shook his head. "I used to use pay phones all the time. They are a vanishing breed, you know."

"So you figure heroism is going the way of the pay phone?" Mary Jane asked, half serious.

"Heroism?" Peter echoed. "That's a strong word for what I did. But yeah." He looked her in the eye. "I have the perfect job, a great home, a beautiful and loving wife, and a bright future. Believe me, MJ. This is as good as it gets."

She smiled back at him, and he chose not to see the doubt behind her smile.

**Friday, November 26 2004**

Peter stood at the ready in his leisure suit, his hair trimmed impeccably, slim sunglasses hiding his eyes. Mary Jane stood next to him, attractively arrayed in a simple and elegant dress.

Peter's senses uncoiled through the crowd as the airplane's passengers began disembarking. His senses also registered the artful pickpocket who lifted his wallet expertly. Peter grinned, gave the pickpocket a few seconds to get a head start, then he glided through the crowd after him. Peter dipped into the pick-pocket's pocket, drawing his wallet from his baggy pants, and he tapped the young man on the shoulder.

"Trade you," he grinned, his eyes unamused. He offered the young man his own wallet, and the pickpocket paled. He handed Peter's wallet back.

"Everthin's there," he stammered.

"Go home," Peter said coldly. He turned, and drifted back to Mary Jane's side.

"I know," he said. "They'll be the last ones off. There's a way these things are done." Peter glanced around the crowd.

'Now Peter. Be nice," Mary Jane said, nervous.

Peter just smiled. "I'll turn on the charm."

Ten minutes later, Peter perked up. "Here they come." He nodded at the couple that trod up the ramp, unhurried, towards the end of the line.

Peter strode forward to meet them, Mary Jane at his heels.

"Alonzo," Peter said effusively. "Angie. So glad you could make it." He smiled broadly, shaking Alonzo's hand, then Angie's hand. Alonzo was fairly short and hairy, almost a caricature. Angie was birdlike, thin, and nervous.

"Hi mom, hi dad," Mary Jane said, giving them hugs.

"I'll get the car," Peter said, and he slipped away into the crowd.

"Well," Alonzo sniffed. "You look good, Mary. Glad to know you aren't starving."

"That's a lovely dress," Angie exclaimed. "Is it new?"

"Yeah," Mary Jane grinned. "Let's get your luggage while Peter's getting the car."

"This time of day?" Alonzo started. "There's no way he can get the car and make it around before we get the bags. He wants us to, what, wait for him on the curb?"

"He figured you'd rather complain about waiting than complain about him not bothering to meet you at the gate," Mary Jane observed.

"Down, honey," Angie said as she patted her husband's arm. "Be nice, now."

"I'm being nice, who's not nice?" Alonzo muttered. "There, our bags. I'll get our bags." He headed for the luggage carousel.

"So how have you been, mom?" Mary Jane asked.

"Oh, the question is how _you_ have been. Why, it's been over a year now! What did you do for your anniversary?"

"Peter doesn't really like Halloween," Mary Jane explained. "We spent it together, just the two of us, in the new apartment. Went out for a nice dinner, then," she shrugged, blushing slightly, "had a quiet evening at home."

"Say no more," her mother nodded wisely, patting her arm. "That sounds lovely."

"Did you have a good flight?" Mary Jane asked as her father returned clutching two bags, another bag hanging from his shoulder by a strap.

"Jouncy. Pilots these days. I don't know how they train them, but they need to try harder," Alonzo said with a despairing shake of the head. "Where is he picking us up? Here by the gate? Somewhere convenient, or is he just circling?"

"Come on, dad, this way," Mary Jane said with slightly forced friendliness. "He's pretty fast, he might already be waiting for us."

"Fast, that fast? Nobody's that fast. He's probably in line at the gate. He's probably…"

Alonzo trailed off as they walked out the sliding doors and Peter leaned over to push the passenger door of the Mercedes Benz open. He popped the trunk.

"This way," Mary Jane said, opening the trunk. Alonzo slung the bags into the clean, new space.

"This is nice," he said with a startled expression. "This is very nice. It's yours?"

"Please hurry," Peter called from the driver's seat. "We don't want to be late for our reservations."

"Reservations, what reservations, where are we going?" Alonzo asked. "You didn't ask us where we wanted to go? Where are these reservations?" He lowered himself into the car.

"Let's just say it's not pizza," Peter said, smiling to himself as the car filled up with family.


	15. Proof of Lifestyle

**xXx**

"Perhaps you would like a jacket, sir? To be more comfortable?" the trim man in a suit said.

"Sure, a jacket, that's fine," Alonzo said, a little off balance as he looked around the tastefully decorated corridor that led to the restaurant's antechamber. He stripped off his windbreaker and shrugged into the suit jacket. Angie peered at the restaurant, her eyes almost comically large. Peter nodded.

"This is the Hellfire Club, one of the most exclusive dining establishments in New York. I got us some reservations. So we can be truly grateful for all that we have," Peter said with a grin, his eyes dark as he regarded his inlaws. There was something too refined to be glee that sparkled in the back of that gaze, and he led the way as they followed the maitre de to the table on an elevated level, overlooking the rest of the dining space.

The wide room easily accommodated the diners that were lunching, mostly over business. There was room to spare. The skylight was a dome of colored glass, a mural of angels. The décor was dark, tasteful, wildly imaginative.

"This is quite a place, not at all like Lucky's pizza." Alonzo glanced around, trying to take it all in.

"There are no prices on the menu," Angie noticed, a bit dismayed.

"Don't worry about that, I'm picking up the tab. I insist," Peter smiled. Mary Jane glanced at him.

"Well," Alonzo noted, "apparently there's more of a future in photography than I thought! You're really living it up, Parker!"

"I got a new post," Peter shrugged. "I'm head photographer for a magazine on interior design. The first issue is rolling out now. I pretty much call the shots on the project. Let's see, Mr. Watson. You're in, what, sales? Vacuum cleaners?"

"Yeah," he said with a bit of a grin. "Yeah, that's right. Hammond Vacuum Sweepers. Put Mary here through college," he beamed.

"I always did say dad's job 'sucked,'" Mary Jane grinned, nudging Peter under the table.

Peter just chuckled. "Nothing to add," he said with half a smile. "The roofing company still treating you right, Mrs. W? You handle the scheduling, right?"

"And the filing," she said. "All the outside contact. There's a lot of… of complicated things," she trailed off. "We just finished redoing the filing system." She ducked at the menu, studying it as Mary Jane's smile widened and she quietly stepped on Peter's foot.

"Good, that's great," Peter said.

"So what kind of camera do you use, Parker?" Alonzo asked, bright eyed.

"Digital," Peter replied. "I turn light into electricity, then back to light. It's a hell of a show." He blinked, then pulled out his phone. He checked the number on the caller id. "Scuse me, I gotta take this," he said. He snapped the phone open; "Parker here," he said.

After listening for just a moment, he rose to his feet and turned away from the table. "Yeah, on Monday we've got the Hawkwood shoot. Just make sure I've got the place to myself. Right, I just need a key to get in."

As his conversation continued, Mary Jane cleared her throat. "Well! So this is the Hellfire Club. It's quite a place. Working for Mr. Worthington, Peter got membership. So we can come here any time we want to." Mary Jane smiled.

"What should I order?" Angie asked her daughter, a bit nervous as she looked over the menu.

"Try the lobster claws and shrimp," Mary Jane said. "I don't know how they prepare the butter sauce, but there's nothing like it. In fact, that's what I'll have too."

"Do you think Parker would mind if I got the twenty ounce steak?" Alonzo asked Mary Jane in a stage whisper.

"I'd be honored," Peter said, returning to the table but not sitting. "In fact, get the twenty ounce and a bottle of wine. Mary Jane, here," Peter said, handing her his key ring. "You can take them home after lunch. I'm afraid I've got to talk to some people about Monday's shoot. Will you excuse me?"

"Hey, good luck. Want us to get something to go?" Alonzo asked brightly.

"I'm good," Peter shrugged. "Have a great lunch." He smiled at them, then headed over to have a word with the maitre de.

"Hot diggity," Alonzo grinned. "Didja see that? Swank place like this, and he doesn't even care!" Alonzo was flushed with excitement.

"He does seem a bit more… relaxed than he did before the wedding," Angie agreed, blinking.

"Yeah, before the _wedding_," Mary Jane said. "A guy can be nervous before he gets hitched, right?"

"You got a real catch, Mary," Alonzo said breathlessly. "So are you still living in that apartment on Wellington?"

"Heh," Mary Jane said. "No. No, we're not."

"Never been happier to be wrong," Alonzo confided in them. "That Parker! Wotta guy!"

"Yeah," Mary Jane said as she looked at the table. For just a moment, she saw her parents through Peter's eyes.

She didn't like it.

"So we're doing Thanksgiving dinner after a meal like this?" Angie asked. "Seems strange to cook on the heels of such a feast."

"Oh, right," Mary Jane said. "Peter has something he's got to go to tonight. So we're doing lunch tomorrow."

"Mary," her mother said, concerned. "Are you alone a lot? Does this new job keep him very busy?"

"Of course it does, woman!" Alonzo said. "A man has to look after his business. Hell of a provider! _Hell_ of a provider," Alonzo beamed as the waiter approached the table, ready to take their orders.

**xXx**

"To clarify," Worthington said as he adjusted the cufflinks on his white tuxedo. He turned to Peter, his eyes sharp and peculiar. "I want two things from you tonight." They stood by the waterfall at the end of Worthington's spacious top floors of his skyscraper. He had converted the top four floors to a multi-level playground, vast and airy and open, filled with light. Plants flourished, worked into the décor, and the entire enclosure was a peculiar artistic statement.

"What are those?" Peter asked, dapper in his dark suit.

"I want you to take pictures of me with some of the donors. That's part of the draw with these big charity functions. That's obvious. You're one of my best photographers." Worthington flashed a winning smile. "Perhaps the most valuable."

"And the other?"

Worthington regarded him for a long moment. "Show me my space, here, through your eyes. I know you do your photo shoots alone. But tonight, you can't. The place is full of people." Worthington hesitated. "Show it to me. Show it to me as _you_ see it."

Peter arched an eyebrow, uncertain.

"Come on, Parker," Worthington purred. "Surely by now you've realized I don't give a damn about your magazine. But _you_ intrigue me. Elgin said you were the genuine article, and, as I see more and more of your work, I must agree with him." He paused as Peter's phone hummed in his pocket.

Peter plucked the phone out, checked the number. "It's the wife," he said. "She can talk to me when I get home." He pocketed the phone. "I've been known to be dense; what exactly are we talking about here?" Peter asked.

Worthington looked out over the rich expanse of his playground. "Upload your pictures to the web site tonight, send me an email letting me know where they are posted. Keep tomorrow open. I might have a… rather unique photo shoot for you. If you perform well tonight."

"Unique?" Peter said, uncomfortable.

"Nothing sexual," Worthington assured him. "Nothing illegal. A man of my stature has opportunities to make rare acquisitions… Nothing I care to explain. But I want to have the most artistic photographs possible, to document what I have. And you… you have the vision I seek." He smiled. "I require the utmost confidentiality. And nothing but the most keen and insightful artistic vision."

"I'll clear my schedule," Peter nodded.

"Good," Worthington said firmly. "Very good indeed. And you'll be pleased to know that the magazine is moving issues, sales are good. I've put word and advance copies out through my network, and Interiosity is rapidly becoming a must-have in certain circles." He smiled somewhat enigmatically.

"That's good news," Peter agreed. "Who did you need pictures of?"

"Follow me," Worthington said crisply. He turned, the coat tails of his tuxedo flaring briefly, and he led Peter down the steps towards the incoming guests.

**xXx**

"This is good," Peter breathed as he watched the pictures load from the camera to his computer. "This is _really_ good."

Mary Jane knocked as she opened the door to his study. He glanced up.

"Peter," she said patiently. "Mom and dad were wondering if you wanted to come play Risk with us."

"Risk?" Peter asked, eyes glued to the screen.

"Board game? World domination?" She paused. "They came all the way from Texas," she said.

"As much as I would love to play," Peter lied, "I really have to do this." He turned to look at her. "Tonight Worthington told me to clear my schedule for tomorrow. For a specialized photo shoot. MJ, if he likes my work, if I get in with him as a sponsored artist…" His glittering eyes flashed, a smile touched his features. She could almost feel the slight fever that had risen in his blood. "We could be set for life. Depending on _tomorrow._" He turned back to his computer. "They're _your_ family. Entertain them."

"Look, Peter," Mary Jane said sternly. "We already moved Thanksgiving once—"

"If you don't want to move it again," Peter said sharply, cutting her off, "then _cancel_ it. Don't you see? Can't you understand how important this is to us?"

Mary Jane watched him for a moment; the unnatural grace, the peculiar glitter in his eyes as he watched the monitor, the looseness of his stance, the giddy fever that raced through him. He flicked the mouse through the images, entranced by his work.

Mary Jane looked at the monitor as his pictures flashed up. She saw a shadow falling across a potted plant that was backlit, swathing shadow and light and translucence together. She saw underlit shadows flung up against the peculiar glass skylights, echoing with the light that floated up from the streets of New York, lost in the darkness where only the brightest stars were still visible. She saw a detail of a banister with a lovely hand carelessly draped across it, alongside a feather boa; the stone and wood and iron and flesh and nails and bracelet and cloth and feathers flowed in a peculiar twisting mesh of texture.

Mary Jane quietly stepped back out of the doorway, leaving Peter to his images. And as she walked away, she wished quietly to herself that his senses would bother to notice.

**Saturday, November 27 2004**

Peter stood, arms crossed over his chest, holding his cell phone, looking out over New York as the sunrise tilted over the horizon and poured gold across the city. He wore khakis, a black tee shirt. Motionless, patient, he waited.

The phone buzzed in his hand, and he glanced at the caller id. Then he snapped it open.

"This is Peter," he said. He paused for a moment as his heart stopped. Then joy blazed through his features, and he nodded. "I'm on my way, Mr. Worthington," he said seriously. He snapped the phone shut, spun, and scooped up his two camera bags.

He was gone before anyone else woke up.


	16. Soar Away

**xXx**

The elevator slid open, and Peter stepped into the aerie where the party had been held the night before. The air positively shimmered with the light that poured through the treated glass.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Worthington said. He stood on one of many balconies, looking down at Peter. He was bare chested, his torso tight and lean and defined. He jogged down the stairs, wearing wrestling shoes and dressed in athletic shorts. He approached Peter. "It's time we had a talk about the nature of power."

"Alright," Peter said, simultaneously agreeable and cautious.

"Power and vision are linked, Peter. And beauty is a power that cannot exist without vision. And I need you to _swear_ to me that whatever pictures you take in this room here today are strictly confidential. You will download them to my computer, and only my computer. This information is secret, not to be shared with _anyone_. Do you agree?"

"I agree," Peter nodded.

Worthington tapped at a panel on the wall, and it spun around to reveal a keypad. Worthington tapped a code into it, and the wall along one side of the room twitched and hummed. A panel slid away to reveal large framed pictures, a meter across. Peter blinked, then stared.

The first picture was a malformed freak show child. But the light lay across the smooth curve of the forehead, the hair was curled in a textural worl; one eye was hemmed in by bone, but the other was pure innocence. Worthington watched Peter closely as he took in the next image; a car, aflame, and a body half hanging out and reaching to the sky with a twist of flame around the forearm and fingers, light and shadow and texture blended into a warped abstraction overlaying the scene of death. Peter's senses captured the nuance, grasped at the aesthetic as they played over the next photo.

An old man, peering at the lens over the webbing between his gnarled fingers, pain written in the deep lines of his face. Peter looked down along the wall, his breath stolen by the sheer bizarre composition and peculiarity of the pictures.

"These are beautiful," Worthington murmured. "I am most fascinated with those who are… born different. Reviled and shunned, they remind the world that normal is only a suggestion, not the rule. That we could, given a little twist, be something utterly other than what we are. That our ability to function and interact with the asylum of human society depends entirely on how we look." He paused, eyeing Peter.

"Also in my collection are works of beauty in the midst of ugliness. Where others see atrocity and horror, I can't help but catch the beauty they miss. It's all interwoven. I see ugliness where others see beauty, and beauty where they shrink from what they consider madness."

Peter tore his eyes and senses away from the gallery. "Are you deformed?" he asked softly.

"No, not in the least," Worthington smiled. "But I, like you, was born different." He paused.

"Like me?" Peter said.

Worthington leaned close. "I have trained myself to see deviance," he breathed. "I have studied it since I was a child. Beauty is not in pinup models, it is in the depths of what humanity dare not acknowledge in itself. It is in the change that overcomes the few. Our beauty is in our exceptions, not in our rules. And I can feel it positively radiating from you. You are different, Peter Parker." He leaned back, eyes narrow.

"I won't ask you to share with me," he said. "You can keep your secret for now. Gods know how it's been pounded into you that difference is evil. But… I know that you will understand. When I show you my birthright."

"Your… your birthright?" Peter said.

Worthington nodded. "I can show you the rest of my art collection later. I grow impatient to show you the reason I asked you to come."

"Let's have a look," Peter said firmly, burying his misgivings.

Worthington treated him to an enigmatic smile, then he turned and trotted up a spiral staircase. Peter followed, his eyes trailing the aerie, wanting to photograph it in the daytime.

"You know," Peter said, "we _could_ feature this place in an issue."

"No," Worthington said simply. "It's mine. I don't want to share it with the world. When I have parties here, the guests leave with a sense of grandeur, but no time to really absorb the wonder of the place. That's why I won't let you record it, or others. At least, not for anyone's use but mine."

They reached a walkway that bisected the aerie, and Worthington strolled along to the far end. A blank wall was smoothly curved, back around to staircases on both sides. Worthington tapped at the wall, and a panel flipped up to reveal another keypad.

"You sure have a lot hidden in plain sight here," Peter said with a small smile.

"You'd know all about that," Worthington replied quietly. He turned and looked Peter in the eye. "When I was born, I had wings," he said simply.

Peter blinked.

Worthington regarded the keypad. "My father had them amputated. My mother… she was an angel. And she died birthing me. No one could protect me, I was just an infant, so he had my wings cut off. I carried scars, scars in my soul to match the ones on my back. The wind had been stolen from me, and I thought I would live the rest of my life maimed by the loss of a piece of my soul I could never regain." His smile turned sly.

"Until the advent of cybernetics. Until I could turn my fortune into wings." He darted his fingers at the keypad, punching in a code, and the wall twitched, then rolled aside.

The wings were black, with a high burnished tan sheen. Detailed feather by feather, the construct wasn't steel; as Peter's senses probed at the wings, he couldn't tell _what_ they were made of. Worthington backed up to the wings, and there was a peculiar shiver and a rapid set of sniks.

"This is what you want pictures of?" Peter said breathlessly as Worthington stepped away from the display case and his wings flexed out to full extension. Peter could only stare as he saw them stretch to a wingspan of slightly over five meters. Then they folded, furled, and hung behind him.

"What do you think?" Worthington asked, his eyes dark and focused, a slight smile on his classically handsome features.

"Can… can you fly?" Peter asked, at a loss.

Worthington turned, took a few bounding strides, and hurled himself off the balcony. His wings whipped open, and he sailed effortlessly around one of the columns that held the aerie up, drifting in a lazy spiral up towards the glass as Peter's heart thudded with the surreal beauty of his flight. The sun sparkled on the highlights of the glossy, dark wings as they flexed and shifted with the unconscious grace of appendages.

Worthington flicked himself to the side, kicking off the glass in a quick little run, then his wings folded and he plunged down towards the floor, whipping through the air faster than gravity could pull him. At the last possible moment, his wings twitched open, shaping the air, leveraging him from a dive to a soaring ascension; he twirled around a staircase, zipped through a loop, and flared his wings to deposit him lightly right in front of Peter.

"The windows are treated," Worthington said, not even winded. "No one can see in. I built this place so I could have somewhere to stretch out and let go from time to time. I spent two weeks flying over the rain forest last winter. I'm not ready to face public reaction to a man with wings, and I may never be. But to have these, to be able to do what I am able to do, and not tell _anyone…_ That is a burden. A burden that I want you to share with me."

Peter slowly nodded. "I'll help you with this," he said quietly. "And if you ever go public?"

"Yes, the Planetary," Worthington said with a wry smile. "I imagine you've seen more than has ended up in print. I have that feeling about you."

"You're right," Peter said. "And… I totally understand you wanting to keep this a secret."

"At the same time," Worthington said, his wings twitching fastidiously and unconsciously, "it is a crime to have power and not use it. Hide your strength from the world, yes. But not from yourself. That's why I built this place. That's why I've given you a chance with your magazine. Because I feel something in you respond to that opportunity. And I like it."

"I struggled with identity issues for a long time," Peter replied, giddy with the risk he was taking. "I finally found a good fit for my abilities. Not so random. Not so… ineffective. I've found my place." He glanced around the room. "What kind of shots do you want? What are you looking for?"

"Your eyes," Worthington said simply. "And I'm so glad I found them. Show me how these wings look, how I look. I wanted you to show me this place, and I like how you see. Now? Now show me myself. My wings. My beauty." His head tilted back, his eyes oddly languorous, and his wings slowly folded around him like a peculiar high-collar cloak.

Peter readied his camera.

"Let's get started," he said.

**xXx**

Peter kicked the door shut gently, and turned to take in the foyer and living room. Exhaustion dogged his steps as he trudged to his study and slowly hefted his bags up to the counter by his desk. A shadow darkened the doorway.

"I was beginning to wonder," Mary Jane said, "if you were going to get back in time to go to Harry's party." Her tone was neutral.

Peter turned. "Did Harry invite your parents?"

"They know we're out tonight," Mary Jane said quietly. "I sent them to the museum, aquarium, and a nice dinner on us." She wore a stunning emerald dress, her hair was braided, and her makeup was exquisite.

"Believe me, after the day I've had, I look forward to a quiet evening with just the two of us," Peter said with a suggestive grin. "Right now, you look good enough to eat."

"I'm going to Harry's party," Mary Jane replied with the same peculiar calm. "I hope you'll come with me."

For a long moment, Peter considered her determination. Then he shrugged. "Give me a minute to get dressed," he sighed.

**xXx**

"So what do you think, MJ," Peter asked. "Figure we should do like Harry and put a mansion on top of a tall building?"

"I think our setup is plush enough already," Mary Jane shrugged. Peter looked her over, then smiled to himself. The mirrored elevator arrived at its destination, and with a muted tone the doors rolled open. Peter and Mary Jane stepped off the elevator to the dark paneling and elegant taste of the Osborn suite.

Peter helped himself to a fluted wineglass from a tray held by a servant who waited by the elevator. He led Mary Jane down the broad hallway, and they turned to step out into the open dining room.

"Peter! Mary Jane!" called out a voice, and they turned to see a young man approaching with a big grin on his face. Lean and wiry, he had bright eyes and a curly auburn mat of hair combed back against his head. "Glad you could make it. I was beginning to wonder."

"You know Peter and parties," Mary Jane said with a bit of an arch grin. "I got him here, though. How are you doing, Harry? It's been too long."

"Business is good," Harry shrugged, "and life is settling down to a routine. I miss my friends, though. Especially you, Peter," he said wryly. "I haven't been in a car accident or beat up or evicted in what seems like forever!"

"Those days are through," Peter smiled pleasantly, a strange glint in his eye. "I'm chief photographer for Interiosity, a magazine about interior design. Finally got good, steady work. I'm thinking about giving up the Planetary altogether. This new job keeps me pretty busy."

"Well, you're looking good," Harry observed, glancing over the pair. Another newcomer caught his eye. "Hey, I'm so glad you could make it. Have a great time! I'll catch you later." He gave MJ a quick hug, and shook Peter's hand. Then he headed over to the door. "Illyana!"

"Illyana?" Peter echoed, turning. He saw the young blonde woman grin as she hugged Harry and stood back. As they chatted, Peter saw Logan follow Illyana in, glancing around.

"What the hell are they doing here?" Peter wondered aloud, eyes narrowing.

"Harry probably invited Strange. Since, you know, Strange saved his life. Knowing Strange, he probably sent Illyana. Besides, they were both at our wedding. It's not like they don't know each other." She tapped his shoulder. "Hey Parker. Are you really thinking about ditching the Planetary?"

"Look, every time I get involved with Strange and his weird world of wonky wizardry, I end up getting sucked into something where I'm out of my depth. So yeah. Yeah, I'm thinking about it. Pretty seriously."

"Bad news, Peter, I think we've been spotted," Mary Jane said with a small smile as Illyana and Logan approached. "Illyana! Great to see you here," she said. "You look gorgeous!"

Illyana actually blushed, glancing down at her orange and tan dress, her exposed shoulders and arms. Her hair was back in a bun. She grinned at Mary Jane. "Cut it out already, or Logan will catch on and start beating up every healthy male who looks at me and gets ideas." She rolled her eyes. "You'd think he was oblivious to the fact that I teach a martial arts class. He still thinks of me as his little girl." She laughed.

"How you doin," Logan said with a rakish grin, ignoring Illyana, sticking his hand out for Peter to shake. "Been a while."

Peter hesitated, then shook his hand. "I've been busy," he said. "Real busy." He glanced away.

Logan's brows contracted, and he sniffed as he squinted at Peter. "Yeah, I guess so," he said slowly.

"I'll be back in a minute," Peter muttered, and he turned and walked away.

Mary Jane hesitated. "Don't take it personally," she said to Logan. "He's still really struggling with, you know, Aunt May's death."

"I guess he is," Logan agreed, thinking things over as he watched the slim young man walk away.

Peter shifted the door open and stepped into a long room with a balcony down one side, lined with windows. One end of the room had a television array, the other had a pool table and air hockey.

"Thought you might head in here," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Harry standing in the doorway.

"Why's that?" Peter asked.

"Because this used to be my room," Harry replied, walking in past him and looking around. "You and I used to come up here so you could help me with my homework." He chuckled. "I converted this to a game room when I moved into my father's rooms after his death."

"Yeah," Peter said, his mind going back to a distant time. "That was a hard year."

"For both of us," Harry agreed, walking over to the window and looking out. "How are you doing, Peter?" he asked quietly.

"Good," Peter replied. "Are your guests going to miss you?"

"I'll be out shortly for the speech," Harry murmured, eyes tracing the skyline." Remember last year? That was something else, wasn't it."

"Sure was. You haven't had any side effects, have you?" Peter asked cautiously.

"No," Harry replied. He turned to face Peter. "When I took on the darkstone that made you what you are, it drove me crazy with its demands, with its amplification of feelings I tried to keep locked away. And I understood what you live with day to day. I don't want power at that kind of price. I've been behaving myself."

"Well, I guess sometimes you can actually beat the odds," Peter said. "The spider ghost is no more. I'm a photographer now, and damn good at my job. The spider ghost is retired."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, and Peter felt a dark echo somewhere in Harry's steady gaze. He felt his heart speed up, and he felt on the edge of the answer to the question.

Then something inside him recoiled, and he frowned. "Jesus, Harry, give it a rest." He turned and left the room, and Harry watched him go.

Peter found Mary Jane chatting with Tandy. He approached her, smiled at Tandy. "Excuse me," he said. He turned to Mary Jane. "I need to finish up some work for Worthington, it can't wait. Are you coming with me, or do you want to get a ride home from someone else?"

"Good luck, Peter," she said. "I want to at least stay through Harry's speech."

"I can take her home," Tandy volunteered. "Or get Tyrone to. Handy, having a professional driver around."

"Or I can pester Illyana," Mary Jane said. "Trust me on this, I can find my way home."

"Great, have a good one," Peter said with what he meant to be a winning smile. And he strode towards the elevator.

"Some things never change," Tandy sighed. "Just once, I want to be there to see that guy get all the way through a party."

"May never happen," Mary Jane reflected thoughtfully.

The caterers started rolling tables of food into the dining room and setting up along one wall as Harry dinged his fork against his glass. "If I could have your attention," he said, and the room quickly quieted.

He cleared his throat, and smiled. "Thank you all for coming to help me celebrate Thanksgiving. I have a lot to be thankful for. After my illness last year, I had a chance to re-evaluate what's important in life. Friends and family, people, that's what it's all about. And all the money in the world doesn't do you a damn bit of good if you're alone." He grinned. "That's about all the speechifying I got in me. Enjoy supper!" He put his glass down and gestured to the string quartet in the corner, and they started to play.

"Amen," Mary Jane shrugged. "Let's eat."

**xXx**

Peter paused as he approached the door to the apartment. Then he slowly turned the knob and opened the door, glancing inside. Something not right. His senses unreeled through the apartment.

A lighter flicked, and Logan lit his cigar. He stood in the dark of the living room. Peter entered the foyer and slammed the door, turning on the light.

"What the hell are you doing in my home?" he demanded.

Logan snapped the lighter shut and puffed on the cigar, then he turned, watchfully regarding Peter. "I promised you I'd be there," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "if you ever got in serious trouble."

"Yes, you did, and I appreciate that, but—"

"You," Logan interrupted, "are in serious trouble."

Peter stared at him for a moment. "What's that supposed to mean? Who do you think is after me?"

"Nobody," Logan said. "This is an inside job. We've known each other for years, Peter. I've watched you go through a lot of changes. But this latest one? It isn't you."

"Oh, great. Look. Get out." Peter bristled.

Logan's eyes were serious. "I know about resistin the impulse," he said softly. "I know about the voices that come to you at night, and I know how wearisome it gets fightin through all that, stayin grounded. Peter Parker, I think you got tired. And when that happened, you let down your guard. Don't forget who you really are."

"Get out _now_," Peter clarified, his face darkening with real anger.

"I'm goin," Logan nodded. He walked past Peter, reached the door, turned back. "You gotta turn this around," he said, "or it could mean more than just your life you lose."

Peter stepped past him, flung the door open. Logan nodded and left.

Peter slammed the door hard enough to shake the wall.

"Enough of this," Peter muttered, eyes bright, feverish, graceful as he sprang up the stairs and headed into the bedroom. He opened a box in the closet, and lifted out an expensive camera.

"This is what I think of your gift, Strange," Peter said, taking the camera in both hands. "This is what I think of your goon squad, of your minions, of all your do-gooder meddling." He flexed his hands, and the camera came apart in his grip. Glass from the lens cut his palm as he crushed the camera together, the sharp metal sliced at his fingers.

Then Peter flung the wad of mangled camera into the trash can.

Something within him exulted as he balled up his bleeding fists and stalked out of the room.


	17. Part IV begins The Gig

**PART FOUR**

**Saturday, December 18 2004**

With a gasp, Peter sat bolt upright in bed. His lean chest heaved as he blinked at the dreams that still swirled through his mind, not yet settled by the serious business of the day. He shifted the heavy comforter blanket aside and pivoted to sit on the deeply comfortable, broad bed. He stood, and tugged a bathrobe on, rubbing at his eyes. Hearing the echo of Aunt May's voice, seeing Kravinoff's white teeth bared in a laugh. In the background, strangely sad, Beck.

Peter shoved the night back into the darkness, and padded out into the slightly chilly apartment. In the living room, Mary Jane wore sweats. She was settled into horse stance, breathing deep as her arms drifted up then apart, then together and down. Peter crossed to the end table, and picked up the remote. Pushing a button, he turned on the gas fireplace; with a whoosh, it flared to life and licked flame across the false log.

"I smell coffee," he murmured to himself. "Blessed, life-giving coffee." He poured himself a cup and sipped at it, sitting at the table. Mary Jane strolled in a minute later, as the last of the coffee disappeared into Peter.

"What are you doing up already?" she asked with half a grin. "You didn't get back from Worthington's party until almost four."

"Well, you know," Peter shrugged.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "Bad dreams again?"

"Bah," he sighed. "I was still sleeping, wasn't I."

"Sound check is at four this afternoon," Mary Jane said as she stuck bread in the toaster.

"Sound check?" Peter echoed, vaguely confused.

"Yeah. Rio's Canteen? Salvation Army fund raiser? Tandy set it up two weeks ago? Hello?" Mary Jane smiled at him. "Eyes Open, a groovy band that you happen to be the drummer for? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh yeah," he said.

"Tandy once told me it's a damn good thing I live with you, or you'd forget to show up," Mary Jane sighed.

"Well, in my defense, it _was_ your idea in the first place," Peter pointed out.

"All the good ideas do seem to be mine, don't they," she mused.

"That's why I married you," he grinned. He stood, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Okay. Well, if I gotta be at the Rio Canteen at four, I better get cracking on my Christmas chores."

"And I have some shopping to do," Mary Jane said. "I just figured I'd stick around here until you were up so I could remind you of the sound check. I figured you'd remember the concert."

"Oh, it's all coming back to me _now_," Peter said. "You ambushed me before I was properly awake."

"These things happen," Mary Jane grinned. "Okay. I gotta go get ready." She strolled out of the spacious kitchen.

Peter sighed, and headed for the study.

"Let's see," he said, regarding the stacks and piles neatly laid out awaiting his attention. "Mailing list for Christmas _cards_, for Christmas _baskets, _cross referenced by importance to our family and to the magazine." He sat down, and started the sift.

**xXx**

Tyrone leaned over his guitar, plucking at the string and adjusting the tuning peg. He smiled to himself, and glanced over to where Gwen knelt on the floor taping down cords.

"Ww-want some h-hh-help-p?" he asked.

"Got it, thanks," she said, glancing up with a dazzling smile. Tandy headed up the steps onto the stage, still talking on her cell phone.

"Look, I don't know, check with Illyana. I have a show to do, and I'm off the clock." She snapped the phone shut and dropped it in her pocket. "You'd think," she started, then she shook it off. "Never mind. Just never mind. Let's get this gear checked out, clock's ticking. Where are the Parkers?"

"I'm here," Mary Jane said, shrugging off her coat as she gripped her guitar case. "Peter should be along shortly."

"Those aren't famous last words, are they?" Gwen asked with an arched eyebrow.

"My man will be here, seriously, he will," Mary Jane said. She propped her guitar case up and tossed her coat over an amp. "He's… harder to distract than he used to be." She checked her watch. "And he's got thirty seconds until four o'clock."

The backstage door opened, and Peter ducked in as he brushed snow off his shoulders. He hopped up on the stage.

"Hey gang," he said, and he slid out of his coat and hung it on a strut that supported the lights. He sat down in the drum trap, and tapped at the drum heads with his fingertip, listening.

"Fifteen seconds to spare," Mary Jane noted.

"Said I'd be here, didn't I," Peter mused, focused as he tapped gently at each of the heads. He nodded. "Drums are good."

"Dd-don't you want-to be s-ss-sure?" Tyrone asked. "Big r-room."

"I'm sure, trust me," Peter grinned. "So. Want to go through some practice songs?"

"Yeah, let's warm up. Mary Had a Little Lamb. You ready?" Tandy asked as she flicked the keyboard on. She tossed back a mouthful of water from her bottle, then cleared her mind and her throat. "Let's go."

They launched into the jazzy swing of the song, and as Tandy swirled keyboard notes all around it, Tyrone jammed the theme out and Mary Jane slammed base chords into place to hold it together. Peter's drums sizzled into, through, and around the beat and the thrust of the music, and they whipped through twice before the consensual conclusion.

"Hot _damn_ we rock," Mary Jane observed with satisfaction.

"Sounds great," said a man in a trench coat, standing unobserved by the front of the stage.

"Detective Brilhart," Mary Jane faltered. "What a pleasant surprise. Uh… who are you here for?"

"Peter Parker," he said. "Do you mind if we chat for a minute?"  
"Am I in some kind of trouble?" Peter asked without getting up.

"No, nothing like that," Brilhart said, shaking his head. He was lean to the point of gauntness, a fairly young man with eyes that were older than the rest of his face. "Please, just a minute of your time."

"We have a concert tonight. Can it wait?" Peter asked, stubbornness pushing to the fore.

"Please," Brilhart said. He turned and wandered back a short way from the stage, and he turned to watch Peter. The other band members threw nervous glances at him, and Peter sighed.

"Fine," he muttered, rising and leaving the stage. He followed Brilhart to a table on the mezzanine, a raised level to the side of the main floor.

"What," Peter demanded flatly.

"I have a case," Brilhart said slowly. "I was wondering if we could talk about it."

"The spider ghost left town," Peter replied, his voice low and hard. "There is no more Special Crimes Unit."

"I'd like to have a word with you anyway," Brilhart pressed on. "I know you settled the slasher, and I appreciate that. I hear you were spotted near where Fisk's body was found. I don't know what you had to do with that, but the gangland hits stopped, so thanks for whatever part you played there."

"Yeah, I was involved, but that was the end of it, okay?"

"Okay," Brilhart said soothingly. "Okay, fine. But I want to show you this one last case. Hear me out, at least," he added, as close as he could come to begging.

"I can't believe I'm even thinking about this," Peter said, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the table. "Look. I'll hear you out, on the condition that you stick around for our performance tonight. It's for the Salvation Army, it's for a good cause. Deal?"

"Deal," Brilhart said. "I'm not really into that kind of music."

"How do you know? All you heard us do was 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' It's our signature piece." He grinned.

"Right," Brilhart said. He pulled a folder out of his thin bag. "I'll keep this quick," he said, "and you'll see why I wanted to run it by you. Three o'clock this morning. Neighbors reported screams, by the time the cops showed up the victim was dead. Pinned to the wall, ice picks through wrists and ankles. Disembowled. Cause of death, shock. He was on the north wall of the living room of an apartment in the Norfleet Building."  
"Gruesome," Peter noted, glancing at the picture. "So?"

"The victim was Derrick Wilson," Brilhart said. "So we check out his bio, and find out he used to be a trigger man for Fisk's outfit. Assume 'alleged' is attached to all this," he confided. "So I checked the address out. In two days, it will have been a year since there was another gristly murder in that apartment. It's where Heath Fawkes and his ten year old son Adam lived. December 20 last year, the little boy was found pinned to the wall with ice picks and shot through the face, badly beaten. Fawkes himself was dead, facing the boy, duct taped to a chair with a bullet wound in his right arm, right leg. Head chopped clean off."

Peter glanced at the stage. "Tragic."

"Yeah," Brilhart agreed. "Looks like they tortured the boy and made his daddy watch, then figured they had their fun and finished both of them off."

"Why?" Peter asked.

"Don't know," Brilhart said. "Fawkes was a security guard with Omnicorp. We're checking our leads and working on getting to the bottom of this. But that's all just background. We handle stuff like that all the time, they don't even call me in for that level of weird. But this? This takes it to a whole new level." Brilhart tossed a glossy photo on the table, and Peter picked it up and looked it over.

A black and white photo, badly disrupted earth. As Peter looked the picture over, he saw the fragments of a coffin shoved up out of the ground, shattering the turf and pushing it aside as though it had been crashed into from beneath, pushed clear, torn open. He saw the crooked headstone. Fawkes.

"Is this for real?" Peter asked, glancing up from the photo.

Brilhart looked him in the eye, dead serious, and a chill passed between them.

"So you think Fawkes pushed his way out of his grave and tracked down one of the guys that tortured him and his boy to death and pinned him to the same wall the boy was pinned to." Peter leaned back.

"That's pretty much what we are _supposed_ to believe," Brilhart said, "but you and I know that this is a cover. Somebody is trying to scare somebody else. I need to get to the bottom of this and find out who the key players are. We've been rounding up everybody who we suspected worked for Fisk at one time or another, and trying to get some kind of information about what the Fawkes deal was about. But I have limited manpower. This takes time. And I suspect more people are gonna die before it's over." His eyes were deep, vulnerable.

Peter shook his head, his mouth a tight line. "I'd love to help you. Really, I would. But I'm pressed for time these days." He glanced at the stage. "Gotta play. I'm sorry, Brilhart, really."

Brilhart leaned back, and nodded curtly. "I understand," he said. "Thanks for hearing me out."

"No problem. Now you gotta stay for the show, right?" Peter clarified.

"I'll stay for the show," Brilhart replied simply. He tapped a cigarette out of a foil packet, raised it to his lips, lit it with a lighter, eyes down.

As Peter hopped up onto the stage, he saw the band was turned towards two men who had come on from backstage.

"Here's Peter," Tandy said with a gesture. "We were just talking about you," she grinned.

"Hello, pleased to meet you," said a man about Peter's age. He stepped forward, trim and dapper, and extended his hand. Peter shook it. "I'm Richard Fisk," he said. "This is my club."

"Pleased to… meet… you," Peter trailed off as he looked at the man standing behind Fisk. The man who was grinning madly, deeply amused and malicious at the same time.

"I see you know Mr. Ebony, my assistant," Fisk observed.

"We've met," Ebony said as he shook Peter's hand. "So you're the drummer for this outfit! Tell me. How much drum would a spider drum if a spider could drum drums?"

"You're looking… spry," Peter said.

"Oh, you must be remembering when I had a broken _leg_," Ebony replied. "Well, I got that sorted out. I'm back. And I'm bad." The two men stood glaring at each other and smiling and trying not to look like they were glaring at each other.

"I'm looking forward to your music tonight," Fisk said. "Glad you were willing to perform for this Christmas bash. You're doing carols, right?"

"Yeah," Tandy said with a brilliant smile. "Hey, we appreciate the invite."

"Eyes Open is the hottest indie thing going on," Fisk shrugged. "This should work out for everybody. Come on, Ebony. Let's leave these people alone so they can set up." Without looking back, he strolled down the steps, Ebony following.

"Peter?" Tandy said evenly. "Anything we should know about?"

"No," Peter said. "I have some history with that guy. He used to work for Wilson Fisk, before he died. The last time we tussled, I broke damn near every bone in his body. But he looks fine," Peter murmured.

"D-d-ddude, you d-did _w-wh-what_?" Tyrone said, startled.

"He's not a nice guy, trust me on this," Peter said, exasperated. "Look, we here to play music or twenty questions? Let's do this!"


	18. Waiting Over

**xXx**

The crowd applauded; a few shouts and whistles, mostly clapping as the warm-up band finished their set. Backstage, Tandy and Peter exchanged a glance, and Tandy looked over the rest of the band.

"Time to perform," she said seriously. "We are better than we know. We have nothing to fear." She smiled, and they all felt warmed by the moment. Then she turned, and watched as No Quarter came off the stage. The ragged grungy musicians left their gear, and the stage hands came out to switch configurations and so forth.

"Good show," Tandy murmured to them as they filed past. The last one in line couldn't have been older than eighteen; he stopped, turning to Peter.

"Dude, autograph?"

"Sure," Peter grinned, and he took the sharpie and whipped his name across the 'Eyes Open' playbill. The drummer clutched his prize.

"Awesome, dude," he breathed, and he jogged to catch up with the rest of his band.

Less than ten minutes. Eyes Open composed themselves as the crowd milled and chattered, but they could feel the anticipation swelling even from backstage.

"This is gonna be big," Mary Jane breathed. "You feel that out there? They want to see _us._"

The stage manager scampered up to them. "On in three," he whispered.

Tandy nodded, and looked to Tyrone.

"M-Mary h-h-hh-had-dd-d a l-ll-litt-tt-le l-lamb-b," Tyrone managed, choking on the words, his hands trembling with nerves.

"Whose fleece was white as snow," Tandy grinned, eyes lit up.

"And everywhere that Mary went," Mary Jane said, clutching her hands together, washed out pale with fear and excitement.

"Her lamb was sure to go," Peter nodded. "Let's do this thing."

Then the lights came up, and the announcer blared at the crowd to give it up for Eyes Open. Over five hundred people packed into the club, and the roar they put up was almost tangible. The band took their places; Mary Jane and Tyrone ducked into their guitar straps, Tandy settled her stance behind the keyboard, Peter perched on the drum stool and whirled his sticks around and around.

Tandy laughed, and it was a joyful sound. The rest of the band couldn't help but grin as that laugh pushed some tension off their nerves. Then she hit a chord, and they nodded to each other.

The band blazed off down 'Winter Wonderland', swinging it with almost dangerous abandon, then they slung straight into the Carol of the Bells. Mary Jane harmonized with Tandy as Peter propelled the wild off-balance rhythm, and Tyrone's guitar fired through the verses with agility his voice could never match.

Sweat flowed from the musicians as the hot lights flared down across them, and the pulsing energy of the crowd surged like a mighty tide around and through them. Under the heat of the lights, on the anvil of the stage, hammered by the crowd, a strange bond was finalized between them as each poured everything they had into the music they shared.

Peter closed his eyes, his senses alive with the performance and the rhythm; he took it to the edge, and he was barely aware of what the spider ghost was doing with the drum set. His head felt oddly clear, and awake, and he was alive. Truly alive. He opened his eyes, and as though he was dreaming, he saw his wife in her midriff baring shirt and low-slung jeans, crimson hair askew, jamming for all she was worth. Tandy, glowing under the lights as though she radiated her own light. Tyrone, who didn't have a care in the world as the guitar threw up a barrier between him and everything else he worried about.

With a rattle and a crash, the Carol of the Bells swirled through the last verse and came to a graceful, balanced halt. The crowd went wild, and the band took a moment to sip water bottles and check their instruments.

"Okay, gang," Tandy said so only the band could hear. "I want to do 'Waiting.' Any problem with that?"

"D-do it," Tyrone said with a grin that showed off all his teeth.

Peter remembered back through rehearsals, remembered her tinkering with the song. He shrugged. He made it all up as he went along anyway. Mary Jane's eyes widened, and she was on board.

"Okay. With me," Tandy said, and she tilted the mike back in front of her. "Listen up," she said, and the crowd's noise shimmered off a magnitude, still deafening. "We're going to step away from carols for a minute. I got something special cooked up for you all tonight. And those who are here tonight and ready for this song are going to hear it in a way that no one else can. You all ready for something different?"

Apparently, they were.

Tandy glanced down at the keyboard, and she touched at the keys with a fluid certainty. Tyrone let her get through the first iteration of the tune; it was minor, haunting, urgent. The guitar slid into the gaps in the tune, and Mary Jane pinned down the base with her chords. Peter simply tapped at the drum heads as Tandy took her time, working out the theme, working out the tune, laying the groundwork.

_I feel you waiting,_ she sang. _I feel the chains that swaddle you, I feel the light that fills your eyes, I feel you dimming through. There's nothin in the world, nothin in the world that can beat you, defeat you, but they can close the windows to, your soul._

Tandy leaned back and jammed on the keyboard as the song kicked it. Peter felt the moment coming, like a storm building, and he was ready. The drums took off, a percussive thunder woven from a dozen strikes. Tandy caught the moment, and rolled into the refrain:

_There's time for waiting, but while you do you hold, your breath. There's time for waiting, just so long as you don't go to sleep. There's time for waiting, but not if waiting eats you, brings your death. When it hurts to move, then sometimes you gotta rest; but if you're waiting, waiting, wating… you gotta know, gotta know, what you're waiting for._

The awareness, the sense of being fully alive swelled in Peter, leaving him vulnerable. He could _feel_ his fellow musicians through the medium he was tied into. He felt their abandon, their escape into this moment from the doubts they carried. And he felt something inside him swell, and a lump grew in his throat as he felt free of his doubt and fear and pain. And as the sensation shocked through him, he realized how cramped he had gotten wedged in the middle of all that.

_Hurts to move, hurts to breathe hurts to walk, hurts to stand. So you're waiting, waiting, waiting to understand. Here's the trick, it's life, life, never gonna make sense, too dense, you just get one so get off the fence._

As Tandy soared into the refrain, Mary Jane ducked at her microphone and crooned harmony, and Peter punished the drums. He could see. He could see under the lights, he could see the crowd. His senses were absorbed in the music, in the drums, but they didn't need him for that. And he saw the listeners.

Here and there in the crowd, there were men and women who were caught utterly flat-footed by the song, transfixed, their eyes open and their mouths slack. Some had tears pouring down their faces.

And Peter saw Brilhart, sitting at a table, holding a cigarette, at a loss. Tearing his eyes from what he saw in Brilhart's face, Peter glanced over to the balcony box seat where Richard Fisk watched, bemused. Behind him, Ebony leaned against the wall, eyes dark, amused as he watched Peter's drumsticks dance and twirl.

_I bring you hope,_ Tandy sung as Mary Jane dropped out and tended to the baseline. _There is a world, a world you forgotten. There is a world, a world you used, used to belong to. And like a birth, like a curse, like the greatest gift you never got, this pain can see you through, till you see through, and the world you left behind? Bust wide open, you come back, you come back, you never left and it's more than you imagined._

Peter gave it his all, and the drums thrummed and rattled with the oddly unbalanced tempo of her song as he felt the whole tone shift to a dissonance that was not her style. For a long moment the spider ghost had its hands full with the rhythm and distance of the song as the words of the chorus held, but the music veered into a shadowed half-remembered elaboration of the theme.

_You are not alone in this thing,_ Tandy crooned, oddly subdued. _And neither are those around you. They have you, you have them. And you choose to say what that means. But in the empty dark, the silence, the cold night of the soul; there is a light, a light that shines in us, a light that's deep in your soul. When you can't look out, can't look up, your neck is half broken; you still have time, and room, space to breathe, if you dive to the bottom. No prison is complete, no prison, is, complete, no prison is complete. And the keys you need, are in the eyes, of those…. around you._

The song almost halted right there; it hung in the air, just luminous and beautiful and breathtakingly sorrowful and hopeful. Peter's eyes blurred with tears as that moment perched, hummed; he saw Tandy turn to him, her eyes touching his for just one moment, and he knew what he had to do.

He rattled a thrust across the drums that turned the moment into momentum, and the band blazed through the refrain twice more before closing out the song.

The crowd went berserk.

Tryone leaned back, squirting his face with the water bottle, and Mary Jane perched on a stool and tried to catch her breath, her eyes vulnerable and open, her whole body slick with sweat. Tandy sat back on her stool, taking a drink, running her hands through her hair. Peter touched at the drums with his fingers. Still the crowd roared, surging at the barriers. Security stepped forward, arms outstretched.

"Okay," Tandy said. "Okay, people, settle. Settle down. We're not done yet." She smiled, a warmth to her that could melt ice at twenty paces. "You all ready for something different? Tell you what. We got some more Christmas carols coming right up."

Peter played through the rest of the set, but he barely felt a thing.

An hour later, the band was finished. They wrapped up the third encore, Frosty the Snowman as he had never rocked before. Cramped and aching, Peter extracted himself from the drum set and bowed with the rest of the band, then they trooped offstage, utterly spent.

Cheering and clapping and hooting met them backstage, too; they were quickly surrounded by techs, groupies, and resourceful fans who had found their way through security. After a flurry of signing, Tandy led the charge as they headed out the back into the crisp December night.

"We can sign everything that's flat another night," Tandy said. "God, I'm worn out."

"Hell, _I'm_ worn out," Peter agreed.

"Does that even happen?" Mary Jane teased, exhaustion clearly printed in her features.

Tyrone had nothing to say as he leaned against the wall and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Tandy looked them over.

"I talked to Fisk, he'll hang on to our stuff and we can pick it up tomorrow. Good work, people. We had something special in there tonight."

"Yeah," Peter said. His senses took her in; the strength and vulnerability that wove through her, filled with her own light. And as they made eye contact, he didn't need her to tell him who she had been singing to. "This is why you wanted to get together a band, isn't it," Peter said quietly. "To touch people. To bring them hope. I know, it's what you said. After you became the Eye. But… I guess I didn't understand what it could mean." To me, he added silently.

She pulled him into a hug, and he didn't resist. He held her tightly for a long moment, feeling tears threaten again. Because she understood. And she gave him his space. But he could no longer wait for Peter Parker to heal on his own.

He let her go, and she smiled at them. Then she turned her back and walked through the dusting of snow that sifted down in the deep night. Tyrone fell in step beside her, glancing over at her, just waiting for the word to slip through the city faster.

Peter turned to Mary Jane, his eyes luminescent. "I'm sorry," he murmured, gesturing, unspecified. He licked his lips. "I have to go out," he said.

She smiled at him, oddly solemn, and she touched the side of his face. "So go," she said softly.

Turning, he moved with the energy of decision, glancing both ways and crossing the street. Mary Jane watched him go, then she shook her head and went home.

**Sunday, December 19, 2004**

The clocktower had just finished tolling midnight as Peter found himself in the cemetery. He easily vaulted the fence and navigated the twisting paths until he spotted police tape.

Moments later he stood by a plot with two headstones, surrounded by yellow tape that fluttered in the chill wind. The dusting of snow concealed nothing from Peter's senses as he let them play across the disrupted grave.

No equipment had done this. He saw the handprints. There was no doubt in his mind that some supernaturally powerful… man who was buried had pushed his way out. He couldn't quite grasp it.

A bloody handprint was smeared on the smaller headstone next to the broken grave. Adam Fawks, the son. Peter wondered if… if perhaps there _was_ an undead killer roaming the streets of New York.

"I could call in Strange," Peter murmured, unconvinced.

_It's been too long, there's too much distance_, whispered a familiar voice in the back of his mind. And Peter realized it had been a long, long time since they had talked to each other. The spider ghost rustled, and Peter blinked as he wondered if the spider ghost had been silent… or if he had.

The tree over the grave shifted slightly, and Peter looked up to see a crow perched in the branches.

The crow gazed at him, as though curious. And the Darkstone taint in Peter recognized something… something was different about the bird. It wasn't entirely an animal.

The crow launched from the branch with a hoarse croak, and Peter followed, jogging after the elusive shadow as it threaded through the night. The crow picked up the pace. Peter found himself jumping and springing through the graveyard, and the light from the moon filtered down, trapped in the snow, so the darkness was oddly luminescent. Peter almost fired web out to swing after the bird, but his sleeves were clamped over his wrists. His feet had only normal traction. Peter skidded to a halt as he realized he couldn't pace the bird. Not like this. Not as Peter Parker.

The bird seemed to understand that, somehow. And it left him behind.

Shivering slightly, Peter left the graveyard.

**xXx**

Peter Parker slipped through the window on the second floor, and glanced around the junk shop. It only took him a moment to find what he was looking for.

He slapped the hat off a child mannequin, and he picked it up. As he tucked it under his arm, he sighed to himself.

"Okay, Chuck," he said to the dummy. "Let's go get you dressed." He tossed a twenty dollar bill on the counter where he found the mannequin, then he was gone.

**xXx**

Peter set the dummy up on a table in his study. He pulled a can of black spray paint out of a drawer. Picking up one of the cardboard boxes left over from the move, Peter tore a box leaf off and cut two ovals the same size out of it.

Then, Peter rolled up his sleeves as he regarded the dummy. He glanced at the clock. Shortly after two in the morning. Fine. He prodded at the long puffy scars on his wrists. They were oddly meaty, and they ended in little scabbed pits. He flexed his forearms. There wasn't much web… He squirted at the dummy, and the atrophied spinnerets struggled to comply. Webbing spat out, mixed with a hint of blood. His forearms began to itch.

"What's going on?" Mary Jane asked from the doorway. She wore a houserobe, and her hair was mussed from the pillow.

"I'm trying to make a suit of mesh," Peter said, glancing at his forearms ruefully. "I guess it's been a while. By noon tomorrow I should have enough mesh to do the job."

"Is this about Brilhart?" Mary Jane asked. "His case?"

"Yes and no," Peter said, regarding the innocent mannequin. "I mean, yeah, he had a case, and I'm checking it out. But I wasn't going to." He turned and looked Mary Jane in the eye. "Waiting. Quite a song. I never really, _really_ listened to it before."

"Maybe it wasn't speaking to you," Mary Jane shrugged. "Tandy. She's something else, isn't she."

"Yes," Peter said. "She takes my breath away." He smiled at Mary Jane. "But you give it back, Mary Jane."

She left the doorway, walked up to him, pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her, felt her warmth. Realized he had missed it.

"It must be weird, for Brilhart to call on you."

"It's weird," Peter agreed, not willing to let her go just yet.

"You going to involve Strange?" she asked. "Or his people?"

Peter sighed. "It's been too long," he said. "I gotta have a look at this one myself. While I'm thinking things over. I don't want to give Strange the wrong idea, like I'm ready to work for him."

Mary Jane had nothing else to say, but she didn't let him go, either.

He didn't mind a bit.


	19. Echoes

**xXx**

Peter pushed back from the table as the sunset poured through the kitchen window.

"Is the paint dry?" Mary Jane asked as she watched her husband.

"Yes," he replied simply. "Thanks for dinner."

"No problem," she shrugged. "I guess you'll be going out, then."

Peter was quiet for a long moment, looking at the window. He let his eyes drift half shut, and he felt the hot lights again. He felt the roar of the crowd across his skin.

"Yes," he said. "Yes I will." He stood up. Thought for a moment, but nothing else came to mind. He headed for the study, and Mary Jane started picking up the dishes.

Peter stepped into the study. Spray paint fumes still clung to the underside of the air. He snapped on the light, and regarded the fully covered child mannequin. It had been thoroughly webbed, and then he had spray painted it. He pulled the two black cardboard ovals off the head, revealing pale eyespots. Tossing the cardboard aside, he expertly slit the waist of the mesh with a small knife. He peeled off the top and the bottom; they were limp, flat, smooth, dark.

Peter stripped down to his underwear, then he pulled the mesh up over his legs. It stretched to fit him, it snugly gripped his skin. He ducked into the shirt, and as it slid over him, his skin crawled for a moment, and something in him rebelled. He gritted his teeth, pulling the mesh over his scarred torso. He rubbed at the seam at his waist, and it blended together into a single piece. He pressed the pale eyespots against his closed eyes, and when he opened his eyes under the mesh, his senses compensated through the thinner mesh. He was able to ignore it altogether.

Standing in the shadowy suit of his own silk, Peter felt again separated, again divided into Peter Parker and the spider ghost. And he took a deep breath, off balance.

"Did you miss me?" he whispered to the spider ghost.

It had no answer for him.

Peter sidled over to the window, tilted it open, and vanished into the night.

**xXx**

Richard Fisk leaned his head forward, poking the tip of his cigar into the flicker of the stick match's flame. He puffed on the cigar, then shook the match out and tossed it in the trash. Turning from the window, he regarded his plush office. He stepped over to the one-way glass that overlooked the dance floor of the Rio Canteen.

A breeze rustled through his office, and he turned to see the outside window open. Frowning, he crossed to the window and closed it, pinching off the flow of cold air from the December twilight.

"Where is Ebony," asked a flat, hard voice from the shadows. Richard jumped, and turned to see a lithe shadow tucked into the corner of the ceiling and the wall. Pale eyespots glared at him balefully.

"You gave me quite a start," the young man said smoothly. "My father's correspondence mentioned a shadow that plagued him. A spider ghost. I thought he was being figurative. Perhaps it was you. And you appear to be more physical than symbolic," Richard observed. He puffed on his cigar, and seated himself behind his desk.

"I'm just a symbol, nothing more," the shadow disagreed. "Where is Jack Ebony tonight."

Richard's handsome features were slightly marred by puzzlement. "All I have to do is tap this button," he said, nodding at the desk, his hands out of sight. "Armed men fill the room. You are foolish to come in here and make demands—"

Too quick for Richard to register the motion, the spider ghost uncoiled from the corner, crossing the room in a fraction of a heartbeat, slamming into Richard and careening back away from the desk, perched on Richard's torso. The chair smacked off the wall, the spider ghost sprang clear still gripping Richard Fisk.

"Bored now," the spider ghost said, emotionless as he effortlessly slammed Richard down on the ground with breathtaking force. He touched Richard's wrist, shifted his grip, and twisted ever so slightly. Richard gasped, his eyes bugging out as tendons quickly found their limits all up and down his arm.

"Last time before I cut your typing words per minute in half," the spider ghost said conversationally. "Where is Jack Ebony?"

"Has the night off!" Richard gasped.

"More," shrugged the spider ghost, only a micro-fraction from permanent damage in the arm.

"Twilliger! He's looking for Twilliger!" Richard almost whined. The spider ghost relaxed pressure; Richard was panting with pain. "Twilliger was one of his men, back when he worked for my father. He's looking for him. Something about a murderer on the loose."

The spider ghost released Richard's hand, looming over him with startling presence for one so lean and small. "Where was he going to start."

Richard squinted up. "Some dive in Hell's Kitchen, Josie's. That's all I know."

"Right," the spider ghost nodded. "I'll let myself out." He paused. "It's probably better for you and your people if you forget we met. And if I don't have reason to renew our acquaintance, that's for the best." Then he was gone through the window, and it tilted listlessly in his wake.

Unsteady, Richard dragged himself to his feet, crossed to the window, leaned on it until it clicked shut. His haunted gaze probed the night, but all the shadows seemed restless…

**xXx**

The nicked and battered door swung open, banging across the old bell nailed over the doorway. Glances were drawn to the doorway as the cold night gusted in around a slim man. The door banged shut, and a cruel smile stole across the newcomer's features.

Patrons swiftly returned their attention to their drinks, and the lean man approached the bar. "You Josie?" he asked the heavyset woman who polished a mug and pinned him with an unimpressed stare.

"Yeah," she said unhelpfully.

"You know me?" he asked softly.

"I don't know you," she replied. "Ain't safe. But I heard of you. What do you want?"

"Twilliger. I'm looking for him."

"He thought you might be," she shrugged. "He's scared out of his mind. I don't know nothin. But I hear he's holed up in the Gretano street safehouse. Just what I hear, that's all."

"You're a peach," Ebony grinned, a sadistic flicker in his eye. He slapped a fifty dollar bill on the bar, then he spun on his heel and left. No one moved to follow him.

Ebony straddled his motorcycle, kicked it to life. He roared away from the bar, easily navigating the familiar dark streets until he crossed the bridge, rolling through Hell's Kitchen.

He was three blocks from the safehouse when he heard gunfire, even over the bike's throaty growl. He gunned it, and screamed through the streets to skid to a halt in front of an old warehouse. He parked the bike, swung off with a flare of his trench coat.

The door had already been kicked off its hinges, and gunsmoke hung and twisted in the unsteady air like incense. Ebony tugged a Glock pistol out of his shoulder holster and squatted by the doorway, peeking through it at hip level.

Two dead men sprawled by the door, and the walls were painted with blood, punctuated with bullet holes. Ebony sidled through the antechamber and peered into the main room of the warehouse.

At first glance, he saw five dead bodies. A bare bulb provided a wavering disk of light on the floor. Centered under the light, in a growing pool of blood, a thin man twitched and shuddered as his amputated arm and leg stumps squirted into the dark stain of his escaping life.

Eyes darting all through the room, Ebony crept to the dying man's side. "Twilliger," he said harshly. "What the hell!"

"F-Fawkes!" Twilliger gasped. "You! You're n-next…" Then shock finished him, and his head sagged back on the concrete floor as his eyes glazed over. Blood kept sluicing out of his corpse.

Ebony looked him over, noting that only one arm and leg had been lopped off. They lay not far from the corpse. Memory stirred. He shook his head. Then instinct took over; he tumbled to the side and popped up to a kneeling position, gun trained on the shadows. Two pale eyespots regarded him.

"Parker," Ebony snarled. "Did you do this?"

"No," the spider ghost replied softly. "Fawkes did. I followed you here from Josie's."

"Cute," Ebony growled. "Why don't you come down here so we can talk this over?" His other hand dipped into his coat and pulled out another Glock. Both pistols lined up on the eyespots.

"How did you get better?" the spider ghost murmured, barely audible. "How did they fix what I did to you?"

"None of your business," Ebony said slowly, rising to his feet. He swore as spittle slapped across the top of his head, and he opened fire. But the eyespots seemed to wink out, and his bullets slapped through the wall. The spider ghost was gone.

Ebony holstered one of his pistols, and he rubbed at the spittle in his hair, then wiped his hand on his coat. "Charming," he muttered. He holstered his other gun, and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He punched in a number, his hands steady and his nerves calm.

"Yeah," he said when the other party picked up. "Send Vinnie, Archer, and Kale. Go pick up Mary Parker, Peter Parker's wife. Bring her to the club." He disconnected, and dropped the phone in his pocket. "Okay, Parker," he growled. "Let's see how much fun we can have with body fluids."

**xXx**

The spider ghost rolled up to the roof as bullets slammed through the wall below. Not holding still, the spider ghost silently crossed over the roof, and Peter glanced back. Sniffing, he easily caught the pheremonal trace his spittle had slathered across Ebony. No escape for him now.

Motion caught at Peter's peripheral vision, and he slowly turned to see a large black crow perched on the ridge of the warehouse roof.

"I'm ready to follow you now," Peter murmured. And the crow took flight.

As the crow swooped and dove between the buildings, over the concrete canyons of the city, Peter followed. He leaped and fired out filaments, swinging, the air soothing around him in a roar of kinetic speed. As the crow picked up the pace, he sprang and flipped and slung himself after the shadow in a pale illuminated darkness.

It would not lose him. He was determined to keep up.

The crow flapped to a halt on a television antenna, ducking its head and cawing over the apartment rooftop. Peter flipped up to the roof, and skidded to a halt.

Chalk stuttered across uneven brick. Peter uncertainly watched a pale, gaunt man who stood with his back to the spider ghost, drawing an indecipherable mural on the brick wall that jutted up from the roof.

The man didn't appear to be a ghost. He wore a tattered, shot-up kevlar vest and a security guard hat with frayed bullet holes in it. His left forearm and hand were wrapped in duct tape, and his right hand had the remains of a tee shirt tied around it. The odd figure seemed to register his presence; pausing, the tall and hollow man slowly turned to face the spider ghost.

He wore bullet-riddled kevlar, and his thin chest was visible under the busted zipper of the askew vest. He wore tattered battle dress uniform pants that were lacerated and punctured, and boots had been duct taped to his feet. His eyes took in Peter with a stillness impossible in the living.

As the spider ghost's senses played across the peculiar figure, there could be no question. Just as there was no pulse. No breathing. No blinking. The thing Peter now faced was dead.

The dead man's features twitched up towards a smile, his dark eyes unfocused. "Light. The other side… it's all about light."

Peter hesitated, still unsure of what to do. The dead man turned his back on Peter, resuming his indecipherable mural. Chalk clicked and dragged over the brick and mortar. "There is a boiling glory of wickedness," the hoarse, unused voice managed. "An ocean of light; nuanced, delicate, more spectacular than a supernova. And it is hope." He tossed the chalk aside, turning again to face the spider ghost. "There are no words for what I have seen. I am an echo of spirit in flesh. An echo of flesh in spirit." He paused. "Just one more," his voice rasped, as pale and thin as the scrape of a dead leaf on concrete. "Then the darkness… falls away from me."

"You are dead," Peter observed, oddly disarmed by the dead man's calm demeanor.

"You have many questions," the revenant observed. "But I have just one." That woke something within him; his dark eyes blazed with unholy life, and Peter glimpsed something swarming with malice behind the mask of his dead face. "Where is Hobb Smith?" He leaned back slightly, as though the mention of his question had wearied him. "I must answer the question, before I can have peace."

"Who knows the answer?" Peter asked.

"I do now," whispered the dead man. "Hobb Smith is _dead._ And he's come back… with me. _All_ of them have." His eyes penetrated Peter, transfixed him. Peter felt the crow watching him too, and something within him prepared to deflect attack if necessary.

The revenant turned back to the mural, regarded it. "It is one thing to _know_ the answer to a question, another thing to _answer_ the question." Slowly, he stooped and picked up a piece of chalk from the scattered sticks at his feet. He began scraping it back and forth, filling in a bent line. "Twelve oh five. Jack Ebony breaks down the door to Heath Fawkes' apartment, with Twilliger and Wilson. They split up; Ebony finds Adam, Heath's son. The other two find Heath. He puts up a struggle, so Twilliger shoots him through the arm and leg. They tape him to a chair in the kitchen."

The dead man dropped the chalk, turning to face Peter. "Ebony asks Heath where Hobb Smith is. Hobb and Heath are good friends where they work as security guards at Omnicorp. Funny thing is, Hobb disappeared without a trace, and Heath doesn't _know_ where he is. Turns out Hobb saw Ebony murder someone. And he had enough evidence to send the sadist to the electric chair. So he ran. And Ebony chased him. But he disappeared. So Ebony started working on Hobb's friends and family."

Peter just watched, and he sensed the gaze of the crow growing deep. The revenant took a step towards him, and leveled an endless gaze at him. "Ebony thought Heath was holding out on him. So he ordered Williams to stick an ice pick through the boy's wrist. Adam is pinned to the wall. He screams, he screams and screams. But no one comes to help. Everyone is afraid. Heath begs. He pleads. Because he doesn't know anything."

Snow started drifting down around them, between them. Peter had the disorienting sense that the building was swirling up towards the endless pale night, lit by the city as it floated upwards, and the snow was motionless.

"Three hours," the revenant managed in a steady voice. "They torture the boy. Put ice picks through his wrists. Ankles. Then Ebony decides Heath really doesn't know anything. He shoots the boy in the face. And he chops Heath's head off." The dead man tilted his head back, his eyes not leaving the spider ghost. Peter saw the distinct ropy scar at his neck. All the way across his neck.

"How did you come back?" he breathed.

"I didn't come back," the dead man whispered. "I never escaped. Not really. Not far enough… I saw the other side. But my rage. There were others… others who couldn't escape. Others who had been killed by my murderer. And they were drawn to me. I became a lightning rod for all that revenge…" His eyes flared with an empty burning, with another world that was interlaced with this one, and Peter shivered. "The weight of our rage stopped me from blending with the Web of Light. So much piled on me that I fell to earth, trapped in my grave… And I was lost. For a year. Until the crow came… To help carry the weight of the rage so I could move. So I could push my way out. Fighting clear of the grave earned me a chance. And that's all."

"That's all?" Peter echoed.

Fawkes almost smiled. "I came back to give Ebony the answer that was worth my life. Worth the life… of my son."

"I can't help you kill him," Peter breathed.

"I'm not asking for help." His voice was hoarse, a rustle, a shadow.

"Ebony is going to be protected by a small army," Peter mused, more to himself than the dead man before him. "And he's dangerous all by himself."

"Yes," Fawkes agreed. "He is gifted. And what he has done with his gift… has resulted in _me._" He regarded Peter. "I may lose," he said softly. "I only have until midnight tomorrow. Then my time is up." He paused. "I must prepare myself. Focus is all I have. And when it is gone… for better or for worse, so am I." The revenant smeared his hand down across the chalk picture. Then he glanced at the crow, and Peter did too.

The crow's flat yellow eye drew in the spider ghost's senses, a pit deep enough for all of them to be lost in it. Then it blinked, and cawed, and leaped from its perch. As it dropped out of sight, Peter realized he was alone on the roof. He took a long, long look at the mural. But he could make no sense of it. The cold began to settle through the thin mesh.

Peter turned, and vanished into the city.


	20. Gathering Focus

**xXx**

Mary Jane wore headphones, a tee shirt, sweat pants. She had the amp set up in the corner of the living room, and the head phones plugged in to it. She also plugged the electric bass guitar into it, and she was strumming to herself, her eyes closed. The moon dimly shone through New York's night-time glow, so she had all the audience she needed.

Over the sound of her guitar, she heard a clatter as the front door was kicked in. She tugged the headphones off and tossed them aside, ducking out of the guitar strap and tossing the instrument on the couch cushions. Spinning, she saw three men wearing masks as they piled through the broken front door.

One of them paused, cocking his head to the side as he looked her over. "Nice," he muttered. "Get her, boys."

Mary Jane's heart raced as she squared off against the three of them. As the leader pulled a syringe from his pocket and uncapped it, a bulky man tugged a taser from his coat, and the third brandished a stun gun.

The taser fired, spitting two wires at her. She leaped aside, landing in a roll and popping up by the overstuffed chair. Yanking its cushion off, she sprang at the man with the stun gun. He lunged for her, and she deflected the strike with the cushion and slammed a meaty knee strike into his ribs. As he grunted, she grabbed at his wrist and twisted viciously, adrenaline coursing through her. He let out a choked scream as his wrist broke, and the stun gun toppled to the carpet.

Tossing the spent taser aside, the big thug yanked a collapsible baton out of his coat and snapped it open. Mary Jane took a big step back, twisting and yanking on her attacker's broken wrist; he let out a gagging scream, breathless, as he twirled to the side and slung into the wall with a loud smack.

Whipping strikes at her, the big man moved in. Mary Jane ducked around the first strike, the second, and she stepped in close to him. Catching his wrist, she slammed her elbow against the hinge of his; stepping wide, she overbalanced him, and he tilted over, stumbling on her leg. He thudded down hard on the wood floor. Jumping back, Mary Jane scooped up the stun gun.

"I don't know who you yahoos are," she started, eyes mean.

The leader yanked a pistol from his shoulder holster. Mary Jane's eyes widened as he leveled it at her. She already knew she didn't dare to surrender. Peter's face flashed across her mind as she did what she had to do. Diving forward, she landed in a roll and whipped out a leg sweep.

She kicked the side of his knee hard as he fired where she had been half a second before. He staggered, and she corrected, planting her shoulder blades on the floor. As he lined the gun up on her, she fired a two-heeled strike into his crotch. The gunman's air left him in a whoosh as the force of the kick lifted him off the floor, airborne and off balance. His feet fluttered at the floor as he landed, but that just slowed the inevitable as he slammed down on the floor hard and curled into a ball.

Mary Jane rolled backward, regaining her feet as the big man staggered upright. She glanced down at the stun gun, held the trigger down. He reached into his coat, she glimpsed a gun butt as his meaty palm slapped down on it.

She took a step towards him, and he yanked the pistol out. Praying for speed, she snapped a wheel kick at him. The side of her foot caught his wrist hard, she kicked his aim totally off, and he fired into the floor as he staggered. She snarled as she thrust with the stun gun, poking its prongs into his ribs. He spasmed and gurgled unpleasantly, and she pushed harder, knocking him back into the wall.

Mary Jane backpedaled, and he slid to the floor half-senseless. She turned to the thin man who cradled his arm.

"No! _No!_" he squealed, but she kicked him in the belly, then zapped him too. She turned to the leader, who was struggling to uncurl himself. He squirmed around to reach for his gun, but she was on him in a flash, jamming the stun gun down between his shoulder blades. He let out a strangled yelp as electricity fried through him, too.

Breathing hard, Mary Jane stood over her three groaning attackers. She ran to the phone, slapping the stun gun down on the counter as she picked up the handset and dialed 911 on the cordless. She tucked the stun gun into her waistband, then ran over to pick up their guns as she waited for the call to get through.

"I have a break-in to report," she said quickly as a dispatcher came on the line.

**xXx**

Peter let go of the filament, sailing through open space, and he slapped against the side of a building and paused. Looking down at the front door to his apartment building, he saw police cars and a paddy wagon. He saw Mary Jane and two police officers; she ducked into the back of a squad car.

Peter dropped into free-fall, firing out a webline that slung him into a tree over the police cruiser. He sucked on his tongue and spat pheremonal tracer down onto the roof of the car. Then he darted through the tree, hopped at the side of his apartment building, and squirreled up at high speed.

It took him very little time to slip into the apartment, web up a bundle of clothes, and slip out again. He swung through the scent trail of the pheremones, agile and strong. Swinging through the city, he got a sense of the car's direction. So he fired a filament high against a building and tugged on the elastic material. Soaring up into the night, he looked ahead, his senses probing at the collection of buildings before them. He located the precinct, and as the police car stopped at a light he slung out more filaments. Peter raced the police car back to its base, and he won.

A matter of minutes, and Peter Parker stepped out of the alley. In the darkness behind him, the stripped-off mesh suit was already dissolving now that it had been removed from his skin.

Peter jogged over to where Mary Jane was climbing out of the back seat of the police cruiser. She spotted him, ran to him. One of the policemen followed her.

"You must be Mr. Parker," he said.

"I am," Peter replied, absorbed in the wonderful sense of Mary Jane's heartbeat as she hugged him fiercely.

"How did you know to find us?" the cop asked. "Did you call him, Mrs. Parker?"

He touched her arm, and she looked at Peter. His mind raced. "One of my reporter friends monitors police band radio. He called me on my cell phone," Peter said.

"Well, if you'll excuse us, Mrs. Parker has to give a statement."

"No problem," Peter said as Mary Jane let him go. "No problem at all. I'll just wait." He followed them into the station.

Once inside, he stepped into a phone booth and pulled his cell phone out. He dialed Brilhart's office number, got voice mail.

"This is the SCU," he said. "Checked out the Fawkes situation. Fawkes is dead, but he's walking around killing people. He's behind the Twilliger murder tonight. One way or another, it's over tomorrow night. You have my word." He disconnected, then stepped out to the bustling precinct main floor. He sat on a bench, and sighed.

"I am positively _made_ of patience," he muttered.

**xXx**

Peter led the way back into the apartment. He was alert, senses honed for danger. "Stay here," he murmured as they paused in the foyer. He prowled deeper into the apartment as Mary Jane let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

Peter returned a minute later. "All clear," he said. "Just get enough stuff for a weekend trip. I hope to have this wrapped up tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you at a hotel, somewhere safe. More thugs might come after you."

"You worry too much," she said. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm in the tights less than a few hours and already you're in danger," Peter said softly, brushing his fingers along the side of her cheek. He shook his head. "MJ, you're precious to me."

"Hello?" she said. "Why do you think I've been busting my butt in these martial arts classes for the last year? Peter, _nobody_ is 'safe.' But I'm not a victim, either, and I never will be," she clarified, her eyes very green, the set of her jaw determined. "Don't you dare make me your excuse," she added, a slight quiver in her voice.

Peter blinked; for the first time, he saw the raw hurt in her eyes.

"See, it's like this," she said firmly. "The guy I fell in love with? He was man enough to fight the spider ghost, tooth and nail, to be the kind of man he wanted to be. And you not believing in yourself is killing you. So don't you _dare_ hang up the mesh because you think you're protecting me."

"Even if running around in my pajamas means dealing with aliens, mob bosses, and the undead?" Peter asked wryly.

She looked him right in the eye, and he felt her heart rate jump. "I'm _so_ glad you asked," she said, and he sensed a dam about to burst. "You know, there are a lot of people who say they'd do anything for their true love. Me? I'm not just talking." She planted her fists on her hips. "I mean it. I'll put up with all that and more, to be at the side of the man I love."

Adrenaline tingled through Peter's blood as he realized she had never said anything she meant more. He had to blink at the tears that filled his eyes, unshed.

And he pulled her close, held her to him, felt her racing heart as she gripped him like she would never let go.

"You are amazing," Peter whispered.

"Damn straight, I'm as good as it gets, so you better not let me go," she said, her voice rough with emotion. She looked up at him, and Peter kissed her deeply.

Eventually, they let each other go. "I think it's time to head up towards the bed room," Peter mused. "We'll be safe enough tonight, I'm not going anywhere. But tomorrow, I'll take you over to Harry's place. He can look after you until I'm done. Okay?"

"Okay," she nodded. And they headed up the stairs, padded to the bedroom. Once Peter double-checked it again, they started getting ready for bed.

"MJ," Peter said, slightly troubled as he shrugged his shirt off. "About tomorrow. Somebody is going to die. I don't know what to do about it… Part of me wants to stop it, and part of me wants to _help_ the killer. See, the—"

Mary Jane put her cool finger on his lips. "I trust Peter Parker," she said, looking into his eyes. "You keep him front and center tomorrow. And he'll do the right thing."

Peter's eyes were almost curious as he studied her. He tossed his shirt aside.

"Well," he murmured. "Right now Peter Parker knows what the right thing to do is."

They turned off the light.

**Monday, December 20 2004**

Harry met them at the elevator. "Good morning, Parkers," he said as Peter and Mary Jane stepped out of the elevator. "Welcome to Fortress Osborn."

"Hey, I appreciate you looking after Mary Jane for me. Just for today. I hope to be back before dawn," Peter said.

"I won't let anything happen to her," Harry nodded. "_She_ probably won't let anything happen to her either," he grinned.

"Well, yesterday I beat up three guys who came to kidnap me," she said with an arch smile. "They had guns, too. Wanna see how I did it?"

"No thanks," Harry chuckled. "Down girl. I'm on your side. Okay, Parker, I'll look after MJ. You go do what you have to do."

Peter nodded. "Thanks," he said quietly. And he stepped back into the elevator.

The doors slid closed, and Mary Jane turned to Harry. "Peter is back," she said with a smaller, quieter smile.

"And that's a damn good thing," Harry nodded. "I missed him. He has more friends than he realizes, you know."

"I have this feeling he needs them all," she replied wryly.

"See, the thing is," Harry said as he led her down the corridor, deeper into his mansion, "Peter tends to be in the right place at the right time. And he can be counted on to do the right thing. Being Peter's friend is like giving to a charity; may not be easy, but you get a clean conscience because you know you're supporting a noble cause." He grinned.

"That's a different take on the Parker charity," Mary Jane said with a shake of her head. "I hope he comes through this alright."

"He will," Harry nodded. "As long as he makes up his mind. When that guy finally focuses on what he wants to happen? He's unstoppable."

**xXx**

Peter finished his examination of the apartment, then he opened the door to the study. He walked in with a handful of newspaper, and he shifted the child mannequin aside and set up fresh papers to catch the spray paint residue. He planted the mannequin back in place and tugged up his sleeves.

Then he hesitated. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the computer. For a wild unbalanced moment, the spider ghost lunged at the life it had been weaving; if he didn't tend to his accounts, shift his balances around, and maintain his web it would begin to fray from neglect.

"I was _that_ close," Peter murmured to himself. He closed the door, and sat down in the chair. "Spider ghost, we gotta have a chat. I know it's not your fault, what's been going on the last few months. Because what you do is take over when I'm too hurt or tired to keep going. Whatever I get us into, you get us out of."

_Right so far_, whispered the voice in the back of his mind.

"Trying to be a hero… I guess I got too hurt. Too tired. So you got me out of that. Somehow, your freaky spider id was cunning enough to build me a real life while I was hiding."

_But are you grateful? Of course not_, the voice snipped.

"But, you see, I am." Peter tilted his head back, closed his eyes. "Thank you," Peter said softly.

For a long moment, it was quiet in his mind and in the room.

"I think I know how we can work this out," Peter said slowly. "But first Fawkes has got to be dealt with. And we gotta work together to make that happen. See, the reason _I_ need to be in charge with this partnership? Because there's no room for anybody else in _your_ life," he said to the spider id. "And _my_ life has to be about more than just _me_."

Silence.

"Let's make some mesh," Peter said, standing and facing off with the mannequin.

**xXx**

The convoy of vans and trucks circled up in the spacious underground parking lot. Doors opened, and a small army got out of the vehicles and gathered around as one man strode out in front of them.

"Okay, people, listen up. Jack Ebony here. And we're gonna have us a good time tonight." He grinned ferociously. "Brass tacks. We're going to set up in the basement of this abandoned department store. I'm being stalked by one man, which is normally an evening of entertainment for me. But hey. I want to make this last. See, the thing hunting me us undead. Not living, not dead. Think vampires and zombies and that sort of thing. But there's no need to be afraid," he said, eyes bright. "Because there is just one. And check this out. When we bring him down? We can torture him as long as we want and he'll still feel it. Yeah." He rubbed his hands together. "Nothing to be scared of, boys and girls, just keep pulling the trigger." He was utterly fearless.

"When do we get paid?" demanded one of the thugs.

"In the morning, when the dust settles," Ebony shrugged. "Anybody has a problem with that, they can take it up with me. Now. Get to work. I've already briefed four of you on how I want the defenses set up. So we'll split you up in teams and get ready for nightfall. Let's do this!"

They got started.

A man in a bowler hat approached. "Sir. You wanted the sniper on the roof, it's arranged. Where did you want the trip mines?"

"Along the corridor leading into the lower level of the mall. And another sniper up on the fourth floor of the concourse," Ledge said. "Shooters along both sides on the second floor, we're gonna dance on the first floor. Get stuff set up, okay? I have an errand to run before it gets dark, and I want to check everything over before showtime."


	21. Haunting Complete

**xXx**

Peter slowly circled the mannequin, his spinerettes flexed and modulating his webbing to a fine spray as he hosed down the plastic.

"Letting a man get killed is almost as bad as killing him," Peter mused. "But Ebony? This is nuts. I can't just stand aside and let it happen. But I'm not a killer, either. There's always another way." He shook his head.

"It's even more messed up than that. It's like something _chose_ Fawkes to come back, and bring with him all the revenge of Ebony's other victims. Who am I to countermand that sort of freaky supernatural karma punishment?" He took a deep breath as he sprayed over the dummy's face, a lighter density over the eyes.

"Specific to general to specific. Okay, what the hell am I going to do tonight?" He nodded to himself. "Do I stop Fawkes? Do I help him take on Ebony? What am I missing here?" He sighed. "Okay, so the general. Who sent Fawkes? Can Fawkes even be stopped, or am I fooling myself?" Peter hesitated. "No, Fawkes _can _be stopped. A time limit, if nothing else. So… what does it mean if he fails?" He frowned. "Chime in here anytime."

_Kill Ebony. See what happens._

"Never mind," Peter sighed. "Talk about a rock and a hard place. I can't just let Ebony get killed… but I can't stand back and let Ebony and Fisk unify the gangs, either. One Fisk was enough. I don't want to go through that with his son, too."

_Bored now._

"Like you have anything better to do while we're making mesh," Peter replied testily. "Okay. The police have never stopped Ebony, so there's no reason to think they could now. Although… I could call them in to wherever Ebony is hiding. Flush him out so Fawkes can deal with him." He sighed. "Yeah, that worked pretty well when I was being stalked by hit men. No, I don't want any cops killed because of this." He lowered his wrists, watching the fresh shimmer of silk clumped and clotted all over the dummy. He sprayed here and there, evening the coat.

"We're about done here," he said. He picked up the can of black spray paint. Gently, he pushed cardboard circles over the eyes, so they would remain pale. "I can't just let a man die, no matter who it is," he said as he thought back to Fisk. "I'm not a judge, or a jury. But… I have no idea what I'm going to do," he admitted quietly.

_Take a nap. Gonna be a long night._

"Finally," Peter said with a wry grin. "Something sensible."

**xXx**

Urine spattered down into the hole, and Ebony looked on with amusement as he stood over the open grave. Behind him, police tape lay on the cold ground. Two bodyguards watchfully covered the surrounding graveyard, waiting for him to finish his errand.

Ebony shook off, then tucked himself back away and zipped up. "I sure hope that doesn't freeze," he said with a cruel smile. "I want to hear a splash when we toss Fawkes back in there and cover him up."

"We ready?" one of his guards asked.

"We were _born_ ready," Ebony replied. "Let's go bag us some zombie. I can't wait to see if he falls over when shot through the forehead." Ebony chuckled.

They climbed into the car, and roared away through the waning afternoon.

**xXx**

Slowly, almost sensuously, Peter pulled the mesh down over his face. He closed his eyes, his skin hyper-alert as the silk soothed down like night following sunset.

"This is where you belong," he whispered to the spider ghost. "In here. Leave my life to Peter Parker."

_Let's ride_, whispered the spider ghost.

And they were gone. Launching through the window, firing out a filament to catch on a cornice, the spider ghost swung down into the shades of dusk that bruised the light over New York.

As he headed for the Rio Canteen, motion caught his eye. A crow, veering away from him. And all thoughts of Ebony faded as Peter fired out web lines and swooped after the bird.

Five minutes of web slinging carried him to the roof of a tenement building, where Peter skidded to a halt as the crow landed on a chimney and croaked.

Fawkes turned to face him. Guns were taped to his torso, he wore the floppy and useless flak jacket. Fawkes nodded briefly, then resumed feeding shells into his shotgun.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Peter observed.

"You followed the crow," Fawkes said simply.

"Do you control the crow?" Peter asked, again spooked by the dead man's peculiarity.

"There is no control. None is needed," Fawkes said softly, his hoarse voice gentle. "The crow is here to carry the weight and to seek the target. Me?" He cocked the shotgun. "I am here for one purpose only. Revenge. I am an echo," he murmured. "An echo of flesh in spirit, an echo of spirit in flesh."

"Don't. Killing isn't the answer," Peter said, hoping he didn't sound as lame to Fawkes as he did to himself.

"Where there is life, there is hope," Fawkes said wryly. "I'm dead." He shrugged into a long coat. "Funny thing about life. Nobody gets out alive. Killing? It's a matter of timing." His pale, empty eyes transfixed Peter. "I'm not looking for victory. I'm looking for escape. I'm carrying too much, you see. I'll never escape as long as this revenge hangs on me. On us. All of us."

He took a step towards the spider ghost. "Hundreds have died. Hundreds more will die. And Ebony's life is simply one. What is worth more? Ebony's wicked, twisted soul? Or those of his victims?" Fawkes shook his head. "I can't tell you," he murmured. He reached out a hand, something in his eyes shifting. "I can show you." It was almost a plea.

Peter hesitated. Then he reached out and touched Fawkes's hand.

**light**

He gasped, yanking his hand back. Fawkes stood motionless, waiting. Peter gritted his teeth, and touched the dead man's hand again.

**The planet lives. A Web of Light, spanning the globe, and everything inside hazy; decisions, sparks whirling through the endless glow and blaze of life. And the Balance.**

Peter staggered slightly, cascades of lives and sparks, flares and glows of emotion and dream twirling through his mind interlinked with the deep, slow, ceaseless breathing of the planet.

Fawkes watched him solemnly. "There is a light in you," he said, "and it is all the brighter for being couched in darkness." He glanced at the crow, who croaked and bounded off the chimney, taking flight. Fawkes turned and ran like an animal, leaping from one roof to the next, following the bird's lazy flight.

"It's all about balance," Peter whispered. And he realized he had always known, in his heart, that balance was the key.

He understood why the crow had sought him out.

And in a flash, he darted after Fawkes. He gained on the dead man as they crossed rooftops, unerringly following the crow. Then Fawkes was flung back, boots whipping up in the air as his chest slammed down on the roofing. The spider ghost's senses hiccuped back, and he caught the muzzle flash from the opposite roof.

Firing out a web line, the spider ghost swung a long, oblique path around and scampered up to the roof. The sniper spun as the shadow landed skidding. Hauling the rifle up, the sniper tried to shoot the new threat—

The spider ghost smacked him, and tossed his rifle off the roof. He sprang from the roof, swinging down to where Fawkes climbed to his feet, an odd sucking sound hissing from his chest as the wound sealed and left no trace.

"It's about balance," the spider ghost said. "You must fight Ebony. I'll watch your back."

Fawkes slowly nodded, then he dropped off the roof and landed in a roll, rising with his trench coat swirling around him as the wind gusted. The four door guards lined up with their machine guns and opened fire, the bullets pounding and snapping into Fawkes. He tumbled back and rolled, popping up out of his somersault with a gun in each hand. He fired, bullets streaking back towards the guards.

They didn't roll with the impacts.

Rising to his feet again, Fawkes strode towards the door as the bullet holes twisted shut. No new scars. The old ones were enough.

Fawkes stepped into the doorway, and two men lashed out at him. One wielded tonfa, the other slung a chain at his legs. Fawkes fired point blank into the man with the chain as the tonfa smacked into his neck, and spine broke under the hit. Fawkes snatched the man and hurled him down the hallway; as the thug fell, he triggered a wire—

Explosives detonated, and flame curled out of the doorway around Fawkes. He picked himself up, and implacably followed the smoking corridor deeper in. Behind him, the spider ghost slipped into the building.

The crow shot out of the curling smoke, spreading its wings and gliding up in a circle in the open concourse of the abandoned department store. Nervous, two ranks of gunmen watched the crow, and the sniper lazily followed it with his scope. Ebony stood at the far end of the concourse, waiting.

Fawkes strode clear, his tattered and bullet-riddled coat flaring behind him, a gun in each hand.

"Fire!" shouted Ebony, and two ranks of gunmen leaned against the recoil of their weapons as they poured small arms fire down at the dead man. Fawkes tumbled to the side, bullets snipping and slapping into him, and he popped up shooting.

Three men down on the balcony, then the grenade launcher coughed and Fawkes leaped to the side, the grenade sending shrapnel and concussive force washing out from the point of impact. He landed tumbling, and he popped up still shooting; his shirt was gone, shot to pieces, and only tatters of his coat clung to him. His eyes were unchanged, so wrapped up in a deep pain that mere physical injury could do him no harm.

Shooters started raining down from the opposite balcony. With startled gasps, then full-bodied screams, the men fell from the second floor to the first, smacking down painfully on the hard floor. Five of the ten were down before the others realized what was going on; automatic fire roared and flickered in the shadows, but it was already too late.

The rattle and roar of gunfire died out into eerie silence. Wounded men groaned and shifted, the dead quietly leaked blood. Footsteps ringing in the quiet, Fawkes approached Ebony, sure and inexorable as death itself.

"I have your answer," he said softly. "I know where Hobb Smith is."

"Yesterday's news," Ebony sneered. He raised his hand and spoke to the microphone on his wrist. "Shoot the bird."

"No!" Fawkes said, alarmed, as the shot rang out.

Peter perched on the wall, too far away to get involved. As though it was in slow motion, he registered the muzzle flash from the top floor, the streaking bullet; the bird twitched aside, but the shot punched through the bird's wing and half of its chest. Like a dark, crumpled rag, the bird fell.

Fawkes dropped to his knees as Ebony regarded him curiously. "See," Ebony said, "I figured you didn't have any trained birds when you were alive. So the whole crow thing must be an undead trick. And I figured it'd at least piss you off. This is _way_ better," he observed as Fawkes clutched himself into a hug, trembling as weight tilted onto him.

Peter dashed along the balcony, then sprang out across open space, catching the bird in his outstretched hands. He folded the bird into the crook of one arm as he whistled down through the air, then he fired out a webline and tugged himself under cover of a balcony as the rifle above cracked shots after him.

Ebony backhanded Fawkes, knocking him down flat. "Stupid ghost," he sighed. "I fear _nothing_. No man, no spirit. I'm sorry you couldn't rest easy. But it's time you rested." He kicked Fawkes in the ribs, hard, and something cracked. "Truth be told, I'm kind of sorry you aren't invulnerable anymore. Because you could never beat me. Not on your best day. Not on my worst day." He shook his head, looking down at the man who twisted slowly with a strange agony. "Yeah."

Peter, still holding the bird, twirled from one level to the next, landed rolling, spinning around the pillar, and kicked the sniper in the jaw. The man toppled back as his jaw snapped. Peter tossed the rifle to the side, then squatted to examine the bird. He sprayed a bit of mesh over the wound, slowing the blood flow. At least the exit wound was clean; the wing was broken, but the chest was shattered… The crow, oddly docile, allowed him to examine its injury.

"I came… a long way…" Fawkes said, "to tell… you… Hobb Smith died… in an inferno." Fawkes tensed, his eyes flicked up to meet Ebony's casual stare. "You burned him to death. And now?" Fawkes unsteadily rose to his feet. "Hobb Smith is with me. Here. Now."

"This is kinda cool," Ebony grinned. "Too bad more of my victims don't come back for a second helping."

"The answer is complete," Fawkes said simply. His hands darted out, and Ebony knocked one aside as the other snatched his hair and yanked his head back. Startled, Ebony twisted and nabbed Fawkes's wrist, tearing him loose and flinging him in a throw that arced him around and slammed him to the ground right at Ebony's feet.

Fawkes had no breath to lose. He reached up, snatching Ebony's face—

**light**

Ebony twitched, stumbled. But he could not pry himself free, and his hands became stupid and weak. He dropped to his knees as Fawkes rolled over and painfully levered himself up.

**memory**

"You have a lot to answer for, yourself," Fawkes whispered. Then his eyes flared with light, and his hand flexed, and some connection sealed between the dead man and his killer. Light, souls, memory twisted from one into the other.

Then Fawkes gently lowered Ebony to the ground. The assassin's eyes were empty, staring. His mouth, slack with horror, twitched. A web line unreeled, and the spider ghost landed at Fawkes's side. He still held the bird, but it was growing still, becoming lighter somehow.

"He is… dying… a thousand… That's the thing… about life…" Fawkes managed as he leaned back and lay flat on the concrete. "Nobody…" His eyes glazed, and peace stole across him. He was free of the weight and the focus, and the last echoes died away.

Before the eyes of the spider ghost, the dead man's flesh sunk and shriveled. In seconds, it looked like the corpse had died a year ago. Peter looked down as he heard the last erratic flutter of the bird's heart… still. Quietly, mournfully, he knelt and arranged the bird at Fawkes's side. Then he looked at Ebony.

"I guess he didn't kill you after all," he murmured to himself. He looked up into the echoing dark of the department store.

In the distance, sirens wailed. By the time the police found the scene of battle, the spider ghost was long gone.

**xXx**

Mary Jane curled up on the couch, distracted, with the television casting a shifting palette of colors across her. A tapping caught her attention, and she turned to the long French doors that led to the balcony. In the darkness, she saw two pale eyespots.

Quickly rising, she moved to the door and opened it, letting the spider ghost in. Peter pulled his mask up, so she could see his eyes.

"Mary Jane," he said seriously. "It all turned out. But… I gotta ask. What if the apartment was gone."

"Fine," she said. "It was never my home anyway."

"And all the expensive stuff?"

"I just want you," she said solemnly.

He hesitated. "And what if… I went to Strange. To work for him. Full time."

"I'm actually fine with that," she said, her eyes studying his.

He nodded. "This is something I have to do myself," he said.

"I understand." She smiled. "I even packed you some clothes," she said, holding up a backpack.

Peter kissed her, swift and deep, then he was gone.


	22. In the Fold

**xXx**

The door bell was just finishing its resonant gong when the front door opened. The man who opened the door was lean, tall, spare of frame. His eyes were deep, he wore a trim beard and mustache. His black hair was shot through with white, and his temples had already paled with age. There was something mysterious about his saturnine features, his upswept eyebrows, the calculating glint of his eyes.

"Doctor Strange," Peter said. "Can we talk for a minute?" Peter's hair was slicked back, he was dressed simply. He had only a windbreaker in the deep chill of the winter night.

"By all means, come in. This is an unexpected pleasure," Strange said as he ushered Peter in and closed the door behind him. "Your timing is good. I just finished making tea. Would you like a sandwich or anything?"

"Not right now," Peter said, nervous. "Uh… Okay. Tea." First things first.

They stepped into the bright, well appointed kitchen. Strange poured tea into two cups that were waiting on the counter, and he handed Peter his teacup. Strange moved his cup and the pot to the table, where he seated himself.

"You once told me that when I was ready, I could move my pawn to the back row and be a queen," Peter said. "Not like a flaming queen, but like someone with lots of mobility and… I'm botching this." He sat down and sipped at his tea.

"Take your time," Strange murmured, but his eyes lit up.

"It's about balance, isn't it," Peter said softly.

"Yes," Strange said. "Yes it is."

"I think I finally found mine," Peter said clearly, staring down at the table. "I think I understand the power of regret and secrecy." He thought of Aunt May's smile, weak but sincere. "I know that no matter how far you run, your past will find you sooner or later," he added as Beck's serene smile crossed his mind. "And when it's all over… I don't want to have any regrets," he finished as the ghost of Fawkes faded away. He looked Strange in the eye. "I can't turn my back on the spider ghost. I can't give up when things get tough for Peter Parker. If I do, the spider ghost gets to drive until I can take the wheel again. And Tandy taught me…" He looked back down at the table. "I need friends," he said quietly. "To help me remember who I really am."

Strange leaned back in his chair. "I don't really need a photographer right now," he said.

Peter looked up, alarmed, as Strange sipped his tea and regarded him.

"What I _need_," Strange said, "is a general editor for the Planetary. I promised Valeria she would be temporary in the position. I'm overdue on my promise to find her a replacement." He smiled enigmatically. "I don't suppose you have any experience with that?"

"I'll tell Worthington that I'm resigning. I need to give him a month, you understand."

"Yes, I do," Strange said, rising. "Peter… Thank you." He smiled, warm and genuine.

Peter rose to his feet and clasped Strange's proffered hand. "You're welcome. I… I can't believe you waited this long for me to come to you."

"I needed you to find your own answers," Strange shrugged. "I needed you to come to me, so there was no doubt lingering in your mind. No inducement I could have concocted would equal the strength of the conviction you earned on your own. I'll be in touch tomorrow with the details."

"That's great," Peter said with a smile. He felt a load slide away from him as well. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Strange showed him to the door. Peter hesitated, opening his mouth. But nothing came to mind. He smiled, turned, and skipped off to porch to head down the sidewalk.

Strange gently closed the door, returning to the kitchen. He gazed out the window for a long, long moment before he stopped restraining the wide smile that completely filled his features.

"Welcome, Peter Parker," he murmured to himself. "Welcome. I am _delighted_ to have you on board." And, perhaps, relieved, he admitted. But only to himself.

**Friday, December 24 2004**

Peter and Mary Jane approached the mansion wedged in between other brownstones in Greenwich Village.

"Hoo. Look at this. I'm nervous," Peter said sheepishly.

"Well, what sort of surprises do you expect?"

"With this group?" Peter said skeptically. "Never you mind. But that's not it. I mean… I _dumped_ them."

"Bah." Mary Jane waved that away. "In you go, Parker."

"Nazi," he muttered under his breath, and she playfully punched his arm. Chuckling, he rang the doorbell.

The door immediately swung open, letting out laughter and warmth and light. Valeria stood framed in the doorway.

"Hey, the Parkers!" she said. "Come on in." They were ushered in, the heavy door closed behind them.

They stood in the foyer. The kitchen was to the right, the study to the left. Valeria startled Peter; as he was getting his bearings, she pulled him into a hug. Then she turned to Mary Jane.

"This man saved my life," she said. "I don't have to be editor anymore! That's _wonderful_ And I hear he has a knack for it."

"Yeah, I know," Mary Jane said with a slightly rueful smile. She glanced into the den as a hoot of glee sounded. Illyana bustled up to them.

"The Parkers!" Illyana said. "_So_ glad you could make it. Come on in here! Dani and Montessi are here, and the Mystical Presence himself will be down when he's done powdering his nose. I told him we should have a magic show tonight, with levitating ladies and pigeons and silk scarves and stuff, but he just blinked at me, so I think we might be stuck with board games. Oh, Piotr here is my brother, you remember Peter and Mary Jane from the wedding. Okay, really though, I'm glad you two could make it."

"Hi!" the big square-shouldered Russian said. "Bean dip?" he offered.

"No thanks," Peter said. As he and Mary Jane shrugged off their coats, Tandy and Tyrone stepped into the study from a room further back.

"Hey!" Tandy said with a grin. "Glad you could make it. We set up down stairs. Figure we could spread some holiday cheer."

"Wicked cool," Mary Jane grinned. She turned to see Strange strolling into the den from the stairs. He was dressed in a simple tee shirt and khakis, looking oddly out of place in casual clothes.

"Strange!" Tandy said, approaching him, Tyrone grinning in her wake. "Now that Peter works for you, I was wondering if you'd have us as your corporate band. You know, hire responsible adults to do our jobs so we can make rock and roll music?" She smiled disarmingly.

Strange blinked, genuinely startled, mind racing. Tandy chuckled, just a touch of naughty amusement in her tone. "Just kidding," she said.

"Santa _saw_ that," Strange said, slightly flustered. The Eyes Open musicians couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't worry," Valeria said, joining the group. "She'll be sorry on Tuesday. Speaking of which; Parker, you're coming back to our martial arts class, right?"

"I… guess so," Peter said, bewildered. "I guess that's probably a good idea," he clarified as he thought it over.

The front door opened, and Illyana glanced over. "Logan!" she called out, delighted. "There you are! I was beginning to wonder."

He stepped in, stamped the snow off his boots, shook it out of his wild hair. "Wouldn't miss it, darlin," he said. "Peter! I'm glad you're here. I know we aren't exchanging presents at this shindig. But Stark has somethin he wants me ta give to you n Mary. Not for Christmas, mind you," he said. "More like congratulations on your new job." He grinned ferociously and produced a large manila envelope.

"Okay," Peter said, blinking. He opened the envelope, reached in. "What's this?" he murmured, glancing over the document. Then his eyes widened, he paled visibly, and he stared at Logan—

Just in time for Logan to pop the flash as he took a picture with his small disposable camera. He chuckled. "Hope this comes out, might never get that expression again."

"This—this is the deed to Aunt May's _house_," Peter said, startled.

"Stark bought it," Logan said. "Through one a his pet companies. In case you would ever need it back." Logan's grin threatened to overflow his face. "Everthin's still in place."

"Thanks, guys," Peter said, heartfelt. Illyana pulled him into a quick hug as Mary Jane just blinked in the face of that news.

"Awesome," Mary Jane managed. Peter's eyes strayed to the angel perched on the modest Christmas tree. For a moment, he thought of Worthington.

Not one regret troubled him.

"You guys are like family, you know that?" Peter said as Illyana hugged Mary Jane. He looked around the smiling faces, for a moment overwhelmed by their shared experiences.

"R-rock-kk on!" Tyrone said. "L-ll-let's go p-p-pplay!" He headed for the basement stairs. "D-Ddani! C'mon!"

As the group started migrating towards the basement, Mary Jane pushed Peter a few steps, dragged him a step sideways.

"What on earth are you doing, woman?" Peter demanded. She glanced up, her eyes sly.

Mistletoe.

"Look, that's just an excuse to kiss somebody. It's a throwback to a pagan ritual, where—"

"Shut up and kiss me," Mary Jane said, eyes narrowed, leaning against him.

Grinning, Peter did just that.

3


End file.
